


A Sinner and A Saint

by Heroine (Evoxine)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Original Character(s), Slight Canon Divergence, Working Out My Feelings Through Fic, feel-good fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-24 13:37:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 27,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13214862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evoxine/pseuds/Heroine
Summary: A decade after the Second Wizarding War, Harry accidentally stumbles into a certain silver-haired man in Muggle London. Their lives, lived apart for so long, somehow manage to find a way to intertwine. It involves a lot of growing up, long conversations, and the power of time in healing bruised hearts.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Merry Christmas and Happy New Year~
> 
> Before you start reading, please do keep in mind that there are slight changes to canon. For example, Harry and Ginny never married, Hermione and Ron had kids at a later time, Harry quit working as an Auror, etc. These changes should be quite evident as you read! :)

“What a game,” Harry laughs, shouldering his broom and levitating the chest of Quidditch equipment in front of him. He starts to walk off the pitch, trailing behind the last handful of chattering students. Aria Odell grins in response, hazel eyes crinkling as she matches Harry step for step.

“Well deserved win, I must say,” Harry continues. “Even if it’s my team you’ve beaten. It’s about time Hufflepuff won the Cup, no?”

Aria snorts, her cheekbones flushed pink from the sun and excitement. “Well, seeing as we haven’t won in the past five years I’ve been Head of House…”

Chortling, Harry heads up the steps into the castle, Aria pausing for a few moments to scan the area behind them for any straggling kids. The Quidditch pitch, gleaming new after its reconstruction, seems peaceful. Once satisfied that the students are indeed all back in the castle, she follows Harry, closing the heavy doors behind her with a flick of her wand.

They part ways once they reach the main corridor – Harry has to stow the equipment and his broom away, and Aria has to prepare for her evening Charms classes.

“See you at dinner! I’ll send the Cup over to your office as soon as I get around to it!” Harry calls. Aria bids him goodbye with a thumbs up and a friendly wave.

He’s exiting the storage closet when he hears the pitter-patter of feet and turns around to find Teddy Lupin running excitedly up to him.

“Uncle Harry!” He calls, robes slipping off his small shoulders as he bounds up to his godfather. “We won!”

“That you did, buddy,” Harry says, ruffling Teddy’s hair and kneeling down to fix his robes. His referee’s whistle dangles between the two of them, and Teddy reaches out to grab it.

“Quidditch looks so fun,” Teddy rambles, “it’s not the same when it’s just you and me in Gran’s backyard.”

“It’s not,” Harry agrees. “Are you thinking of trying out next year?”

“I don’t know,” Teddy muses. “Will you give me more lessons in the summer?”

“Sure, and maybe we can get your other uncles and aunts to play with us, what do you say?”

With a grin and a series of enthusiastic nods, Teddy agrees.

 

 

 

  
By the time Harry enters the Great Hall, it’s already filled with the sounds of animated conversation, light clinking of cutlery against plates, and the occasional shout of surprise as someone knocks over a goblet of pumpkin juice.

He takes his seat between Mir Satou, the Head of Slytherin, and McGonagall, still going strong as Hogwarts’ Headmistress. She’s gotten more lines in her face over the past decade, but the set of her jaw and the glint in her eyes are much softer. She smiles more now, and it pleases Harry to see it.

“Nice of you to join us, Harry,” she quips, piercing a chunk of meat with her fork.

“Sorry,” Harry says, grinning sheepishly. He waves to Neville down the table, who grins back at him. “I was talking to Luna, and I lost track of time.”

“How is Ms. Lovegood?”

“She’s good,” Harry says, piling his plate with carrots, peas, and roast beef. “Ginny’s currently in Bulgaria for a match, so Luna tagged along. She thinks she might be able to write a couple of articles about Bulgaria for _The Quibbler_ while she’s there.”

“Travelling the world as part of your job,” Mir chimes in, sounding a little awed. “Sounds amazing.”

“You haven’t been back to Japan in a few years, have you?” Harry asks, pushing his hair out of his eyes. Even after all these years, he’s still unable to find a product that holds the damned strands in place.

“No,” Mir answers, sipping delicately at his tea. “But I plan to visit this summer. I hope I’ll be able to.”

“I’m sure your family will be pleased to see you,” Harry replies, and Mir smiles at him.

Chewing on a particularly large piece of carrot, Harry leans back in his seat and surveys the sight in front of him. He watches as a couple of fifth year prefects from Ravenclaw hustle into the Hall and make a beeline for the Gryffindor table, where they settle down with easy grins and dive straight into whatever conversation had been going on before their arrival. He sees a Slytherin boy float an origami heart over to a Hufflepuff girl, who unfolds it with a crease between her eyebrows, only to blush furiously. A bunch of students from various houses are huddled around the far end of the Hufflepuff table, where an intense chess match is underway between the Head Boy (a Hufflepuff) and the Head Girl (a Ravenclaw). A Gryffindor prefect is wearing the robes of his Ravenclaw boyfriend – Harry can tell, because the Ravenclaw is much taller than the Gryffindor, and the latter is simply _swimming_ in those deep blue robes.

Down the table, Aria receives a chocolate frog from the Muggle Studies professor, a young Squib by the name of Fiora Byström. Aria laughs, Fiora laughs, and Harry smiles.

 

 

 

  
The Defence Against the Dark Arts N.E.W.T.s are held on the second to last day of term. Harry only gets to observe, as the test is conducted by an examiner sent via the Wizarding Examinations Authority. As he walks around the classroom – there are only a couple of dozen students who had elected to take the test this year, so holding the test in a bigger room would be pointless –, he can sense how frayed their nerves are. He remembers taking his own N.E.W.T.s, and if it weren’t for Hermione’s help in making sure he was prepared for them, he can only imagine how stressed he’d be.

The exam takes three hours, with the first half dedicated to theory and the second to practical work. At the end, Harry gives every student a handshake and a warm smile, before thanking them for giving him the opportunity and privilege to teach them. They thank him heartily in return, and Harry returns to his chambers feeling rather warm inside.

He has already started to pack, preparing everything for his departure in two days. He’s excited to see his friends, excited to spend lazy mornings with Sirius, his black Labrador, draped across his feet and a mug of coffee in his hands. He misses the Muggle bookstore just around the corner from where he lives (he secretly loves Muggle romance novels, but there’s no way in hell he will ever admit that to anyone) and the small bakery tucked right next to it that sells the best croissants he’s ever had.

Perching on the edge of his desk, Harry pulls out a roll of parchment and scrawls a quick note to Hermione.

_Mione_

_Term ends in two days – would you, Ron, and the tots like to have dinner Friday night at my place? I’ll cook._

_Harry_

_P.S. I’ll make sure to get some of that pudding Rose loves so much._

Attaching it to the leg of one of the school's owls, Harry carries her over to the window. He gives her a treat and she takes off with a soft hoot.

 

 

 

  
Harry lives in a semi-detached house just minutes from the border that separates the Muggle world from the magical one. There are just too many things in the Muggle world that Harry refuses to give up (read: cable TV!!!, the supermarkets, 24-hour fish and chips shops, the normalcy of Muggle public transport, etc.), and so he’d scoured the city until he found this place – the best of both worlds. He still owns 12 Grimmauld Place, but that house contains too many bad memories for it to be a place to call home.

Standing outside his door, Harry takes a moment to breathe and look up at the house. The vines are still stubbornly clinging on to the bricks, and one of the potted plants still looks a little droopy, even after all these months of Kreacher’s faithful watering. There’s a small bird’s nest on the windowsill of his bedroom. Home is just as he remembers it.

Kreacher’s already at the front door when Harry enters, and the house elf bows deeply before snapping his fingers and sending Harry’s trunk to his room. Ever since the war, Kreacher had slowly thawed in his treatment towards Harry, and Harry thinks they’re quite amiable towards each other now. It’s a nice change.

“Would Master Harry like a cup of tea?”

“That sounds good, Kreacher, thanks.” At that, the house elf disappears into the kitchen with a _pop_.

Harry’s just toed off his shoes when he hears a loud bark and the clatter of trimmed dog nails running across the hardwood floors. Sirius skids around the corner, flank slamming into a wall, and Harry laughs when the dog leaps into his arms and laps at his face.

“Hey buddy,” Harry says, bending down to scratch the excited lab behind his floppy ears. “I’ve missed you too. Has Luna been bringing you out on nice walks?”

After his cup of tea, Harry brings Sirius out to the yard for a few rounds of fetch. Once Sirius starts panting heavily, Harry brings him in, cleans his paws with a charm, and plonks a bowl of water in front of him. With his dog sufficiently tired, Harry escapes to the bathroom for a shower.

By the time he’s done, the bathroom’s fogged up so badly that Harry is only able to see his blurred silhouette in the mirror. It’s kinda nice, he thinks – the showers in Hogwarts never fog up this much because it’s always cool inside the castle. But here, at home, his bathroom can get as steamy as he wants it to get. Rubbing a little spot on the mirror to rid it of condensation so that he can peer at himself, Harry applies the necessary potions to his skin and hair before dressing for comfort. He pulls on a pair of sweats and a ratty t-shirt and heads back downstairs.

Sirius fetches him a (random) book from the shelf, and Kreacher sets a glass of red wine on the table. Harry sighs in pleasure as he sinks into his favourite armchair. 

 

 

 

  
Friday finds Harry buried elbows deep in cooking. Kreacher’s busy cleaning the house, leaving Harry to fend for himself amongst floating kitchen utensils. He’s got vegetables being chopped on one side of the island, a large bowl of salad being tossed on the other side, and a creamy pasta base going on behind him.

Ron and Hermione are due to be arriving in ten minutes, and Harry wants to make sure that everything is as perfect as he can get them to be. He hasn’t seen his best friends since term started, and he’s really looking forward to their familiar company once more.

Harry’s just gotten the cooked pasta out of the pot and into the colander when his Floo chimes. He turns around, colander still in hand, and grins at his best mate.

“Hey Ron,” he says, summoning a stack of plates. “Nice face paint.”

Ron drops himself onto one of the bar stools and sighs. Harry dumps the pasta into a serving bowl and puts it under a warming charm before doing the same to the bowl of sauce sitting behind him.

“Hugo went a little…” He gestures to his face. “Y’know.”

“Why don’t you just –”

“Because,” Hermione says, breezing into the kitchen, “it makes Hugo happy to see his art on his father’s face. Isn’t that right, Ron?”

“Yes,” Ron answers, although he gives Harry a despondent look.

Harry steps away from the kitchen island with a laugh and gives Hermione a hug.

“How have you been? The kids?”

“They’re a handful,” Hermione says, “but it’s to be expected, what with their father being a Weasley and all.”

She gives her husband a wink just as identical shrieks of laughter echo from the hall.

“I’ve brought them over a few times while you were gone just to see Sirius,” Hermione tells him, thanking Kreacher as the house elf presents the couple with glasses of wine. “They’ve started to ask me for a dog nowadays.”

Harry sends the plates and cutlery off into the direction of the dining table with a wave of his hand.

“And what did you tell them?”

Hermione levitates the bowls of food and follows Harry into the dining table as Ron heads off to fetch his kids.

“I said maybe,” she replies, tucking a stray lock of curls behind her ear. “When they’re a little older so they understand how to be responsible for one.”

Just as Hermione sets the food down, Harry finds himself almost toppling over, face first, into the steaming bowl of pasta sauce when two little bullets of excitement come barrelling into his legs.

“Uncle ‘Arry!”

“Rosie Posie! Hero Hugo!” Harry exclaims, squatting down so that the kids can try and clamber into his lap. They beam up at him at their nicknames, and Harry lets Hugo pry his glasses off his face as he twirls one of Rose’s pigtails around his finger.

His best friends smile at the sight, Hermione slipping her hand into Ron’s just as Sirius bounds into the room and laps at Harry’s feet enthusiastically.

 

 

 

  
It’s a sunny day in July, and having to restrain an active Sirius is causing Harry to sweat slightly. They’re strolling down a busy street in the heart of Muggle London with the dog stopping ever so often to let strangers pet him. The leash is slippery in Harry’s slick palm, but it’s not enough of a nuisance to convince Harry to stop and duck into a store for a brief respite from the heat.

They’re headed towards a bookstore, for Harry has run out of paperbacks to read while letting his skin get wrinkly from the bath water. Plus, Rose’s birthday is coming up soon, and she’s been wanting a colouring book – according to her, Muggle colouring books are much better, because the lines stay still, enabling her to actually _colour within the lines_.

Harry finally makes it to the store, and he ties Sirius up outside after subtly casting a protection charm on the dog. He leaves Sirius with a little bowl of water from the bottle that he keeps in his pocket (with the help of a shrinking charm, of course) and a scratch behind the ears.

He’s in and out of the store in ten minutes, having already decided on which novels to get before leaving the house. Tucking his purchase under his arm, Harry pushes open the door of the bookstore and stops right in his tracks.

There’s someone petting Sirius – the dog himself wagging his tail furiously as he basks under the attention –, and that someone has a head of silver hair that Harry is able to recognize anywhere.

“Malfoy?”

Draco Malfoy pauses, hand still firmly on the top of Sirius’ head, and Harry can see the blood drain from the man’s already pale face.

“... Potter.”

There’s a pregnant pause, and Sirius whines.

“I’m guessing this is your dog?”

Harry steps tentatively towards him. “Yes. His name is Sirius.”

Draco nods, jaw tensing at the name, and he gives Sirius one last scratch behind his ears before stuffing his hand back into his jeans pocket. Harry blinks at the garment – he’s never seen Draco in Muggle clothes, and it’s… different, to say the least. Draco still hasn’t looked up at him, and Harry shifts awkwardly.

“I didn’t know you were back in London,” he starts. “When did you come back from France?”

“A couple of weeks ago,” Draco answers, finally looking up. He keeps his voice clipped, emotionless.

They haven’t seen each other since Draco’s hearing a few months after the end of the war, after which Narcissa had packed up their bags and sent Draco off to Beauxbatons to finish his last year of school. It’s been almost a decade since they've last seen each other, and in a bid to satisfy his curiosity, Harry takes a moment to study his former school nemesis: Draco’s always been a handsome child, and he's grown up to be quite dashing. He's also shot up another few inches in height, and although Harry himself had finally hit his growth spurt a couple of years after leaving Hogwarts, Draco is still clearly a couple of inches taller than he is. His shoulders are wider, and it seems as though he’s put on a decent amount of muscle over the years. He’s grown out his hair too, Harry notes, gazing at the loose bun propped close to the crown of Draco’s head. Apart from that, nothing’s too different about the man standing in front of him. Well, nothing visibly different, anyway.

The set of Draco’s shoulders are tense as he waits for Harry to say or do something. It seems as though he half-expects Harry to pull out his wand and hex him into oblivion despite standing in the middle of a Muggle-filled street.

“I see,” Harry finally responds. “Welcome back.”

At that, Draco’s grey eyes widen fractionally.

“... Thanks.”

“How’s your mother?”

Draco must know that Harry and Narcissa send each other letters quite regularly, updating each other on their lives and offering greetings on holidays. Their relationship had warmed after the hearing, and Narcissa seems quite willing to treat Harry like a son these days. Harry hadn’t heard from Narcissa in over a couple of months, and wondered if it was because she’d been busy preparing for the move back home.

“She’s doing well. Your, uh, correspondence has been vital in keeping her happy.”

“Likewise. And your… father?”

Draco swallows, arched brows drawing together. “He’s as good as can be expected.”

Harry nods, reaching out to untie Sirius from the drainage pipe. Sirius gives Draco’s shoes a playful nip, and Harry glances up just in time to see a small smile pass across Draco’s face.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Harry says, digging around in his pocket for a dog treat. “Why have you come back to London?”

“I –” Draco starts, but stops. “I have somewhere to be right now, and I’m running a little late. Perhaps I’ll answer that another time. It was… good seeing you, Potter.”

He makes to leave, but Harry reaches out instinctively and curls his fingers around the curve of Draco’s elbow. Draco flinches visibly, and Harry tries to pretend that the reaction didn’t send a sting down his spine.

“Wait,” he says. “How can I contact you?”

Draco looks over his shoulder, confused. “You want my contact information?”

Harry shrugs. “If you’re willing to give it to me, yes.”

Draco bites his bottom lip, exhales, then reaches into his pocket. He takes out a phone, and Harry is properly boggled. _Draco_ is using a Muggle device? Draco in Muggle London is already a sight to behold, but using a Muggle device? Harry _really_ has some questions that are begging to be answered.

Instead, he passes his own phone over to Draco and watches with rapt attention as Draco types out his number with quick fingers.

“Thanks,” Harry says, taking the phone back from Draco. “I’ll message you.”

Draco seems as though he wants to say something, but he settles for a nod and turns on his heel. A few steps later, and he’s blended into the crowd.

 

 

 

  
Harry waits for a whole ten days before finally hitting the Message button next to Draco’s name on his contact list.

_Hi, it’s Harry. I was wondering if you’d be free for breakfast or lunch sometime next week?_

He reads it over a few times, slightly amazed at the casual tone of his message. Never in his lifetime would he have envisioned himself speaking to Draco with such a tone, but time changes many things, Harry supposes.

His finger taps _Send_ , and he sets his phone down, feeling a little nervous.

Not a minute later, his phone chimes.

_Hello, Potter. I am available next Wednesday morning, if that works for you too._

_It does. How does Pellicci sound? 10 A.M.?_

_That’s fine. See you then._

What else can Harry do but stare at his phone in mild disbelief?

 

 

 

  
Thankfully, the clouds are in full bloom on Wednesday, blocking out the worst of the sun’s merciless rays. Harry, dressed in fitted jeans and a simple white tee, tucks his sunglasses into his back pocket just in case the clouds end up failing him. He locks his door with a tap of his wand, and tugs Sirius down the driveway, away from where the dog had his nose buried in their neighbour’s rubbish bags.

He arrives at Pellicci just at the clock strikes ten, and is not surprised to see Draco already inside, at a table against the wall with his back to the front of the café. Draco’s hair is down today, the top half clipped back with a couple of poorly placed bobby pins and what is most definitely some sort of charm. The sleek strands tumble past Draco’s shoulders like silk, skimming the bottom of his scapulas.

Waving at the owners, Harry ushers Sirius inside and heads towards Draco. Sirius settles down obediently underneath the tabletop, curled up by Draco’s feet, and Draco glances down and away from his phone in surprise.

“I hope you don’t mind me bringing him,” Harry says, settling into his seat. “I tend to bring him with me wherever I go. To make up for lost time while I’m away at work and all.”

“That’s quite alright,” Draco replies, a little quickly. “He’s sweet.”

Harry smiles at that and quickly skims the menu. It’s more so that he’ll have something to do; he’s been to Pellicci too many times to count, and he can probably recite the menu in his sleep.

“Have you ordered?”

Draco simply shakes his head.

“Well, their full English is good,” Harry offers. “This is the place I come to if I want a hearty meal. They’ve never failed me.”

At Draco’s nod, Harry orders the both of them a full English.

When their orders have been taken, an awkward silence falls over the table. Draco busies himself with peering down at Sirius while Harry stares at him.

Draco lets out a pointed cough, but does not look away from the lab.

“Why did you want to meet?”

If Harry’s to be completely honest, he doesn’t quite know himself.

“Well, I just thought… it’s been a while, so…”

“Right,” Draco says, finally looking at Harry. He brushes a wayward strand of hair out of his face and tucks it behind an ear. “I’m guessing you have questions of some sort.”

“Possibly.”

“Fire away, then.”

“Why did you leave?”

Draco gives Harry a look that suggests he’s grown an extra head.

“I was a Death Eater, Potter. Surely even you realize that remaining in Britain after the war’s just ended would be less than ideal?”

Harry feels his cheeks flush. “Right.”

Before he can ask another, their food arrives, and Harry’s stomach growls appreciatively.

They eat quietly for a few minutes, with Harry slipping Sirius a small chunk of toast for the dog to nibble on.

“How was France?”

Draco swallows his mouthful of toast and beans and shrugs a shoulder. “It was alright. Beauxbatons was a little… overwhelming, I guess. Quite different from Hogwarts. But the school year passed quite uneventfully, which was what I was hoping for. I got married to Astoria Greengrass – her sister, Daphne, was in our year, I don’t know if you remember? – right after I graduated. Had Scorpius soon after.”

Harry listens attentively, and Draco sighs softly before continuing.

“I worked at a potions store in Paris for a few years. Then, Astoria died when Scorpius was three; from some family curse that she didn’t even know of. After that, I took a couple years to travel the world. Spent a lot of time in Muggle cities, learning about their way of life. Then, because Mother missed Britain and because Scorpius should starting getting used to life in Britain before starting in Hogwarts, we decided to move back.”

“I’m sorry about Astoria. I hope you and your son are doing alright.”

“It’s been a while, so we’re much better now, thanks. He doesn’t remember much of her, and our marriage was strictly arranged just for the production of a Malfoy heir.” Draco takes a long drink of water. “But she was still a dear friend, and a nice person. She was gone far too early.”

They continue eating, Harry’s head swimming with all the new information he’d just heard, and Draco feeling a little weird in his own skin because he never usually divulges said information to others.

“Why Muggle cities?”

Draco pulls a face.

“I wanted to distance myself from my father’s ideals as much as possible. It was an… opportunity to reinvent myself, I guess. I was taught, since the day I could talk, that Muggles were inferior. So I wanted to see if there was any semblance of truth to what my father preached. Turns out, Muggles have things that the wizarding world would never dream of having; mobile phones are amazing, for one. Such a small device able to hold so many things that can keep you entertained for hours on end. You can send a text message to someone and receive a reply in a matter of seconds. Owls will never reach that level of efficiency. Not to mention movies and TV shows! Moving pictures that keep on moving, that tell stories. Electricity! The Internet! Goodness, imagine life in Hogwarts if we had access to the Internet.”

At that point, Draco seems to realize that he’s rambling. Flushing, he spears a piece of sausage with his fork and drops it into his mouth.

“I just… wanted to change. I didn’t want to be who I was anymore.”

Harry gives Sirius another piece of toast and reaches out to touch Draco’s wrist with a fingertip.

“I hope someone’s told you that they’re proud of you,” he says. “Recognizing your flaws and working to get rid of them is respectable.”

Draco snorts. “Yeah, Mother has. That’s about it.”

“Well,” Harry says, “for the record, I’m proud of you.”

There’s a pregnant pause, where Draco plays with the beans on his plate and Harry looks resolutely at a spot just above Draco’s shoulder.

Then, Draco inclines his head and says, “Thanks.”

 

 

 

  
The bar’s oddly empty for a Friday night, but Harry’s not complaining.

Ron’s getting their drinks, and Hermione’s ducked into the bathroom the second she entered the establishment. So Harry’s in their regular booth all by himself, eyes lazily scanning the room.

Hermione returns just as Ron starts heading back from the bar with their pints and baskets of chips.

Once they’ve all gotten their hands on their drinks and Hermione’s put up a subtle privacy charm, Harry leans back in his seat and exhales.

“Go on then, tell us all about it,” Ron presses, taking a hearty gulp of beer. Since their first visit to this Muggle bar a little over a year ago, they’ve been coming every Sunday. Even to this day, Ron claims that Muggle beer is the best thing he’s ever had.

“I’m still a little stunned, to be quite honest,” Harry says, playing with the condensation on his beer mug. “He’s so different.”

“Well, it’s been a decade,” Hermione points out, “I would hope that he’s different.”

“Yeah, but he’s _so_ different. He spent years amongst Muggles, Hermione. Did you ever see that coming?”

“No,” Hermione admits, “but I’m also not too surprised. The war shed light on many things we didn’t want to see, things that we didn’t want to admit to ourselves – I guess this is one of them.”

Ron scoffs. “I dunno, he’ll forever be a real git to me.”

“I’m not saying that him changing negates everything he’s done,” Harry says, “because it doesn’t. He was a real arse to everyone, and that fact will never change, but I really don’t think he’ll go back to that anymore.”

Shrugging, Ron pops a heavily salted chip into his mouth. “Sure, but it’s not like I plan on spending enough time with him to see if that’s the case.”

 

 

 

  
The rest of July passes in a flurry of children. Harry spends most of his free time playing Quidditch with Teddy as Andromeda watches on fondly, and every weekend, he brings Teddy over to Ron and Hermione’s for a playdate with their kids.

When he’s not around the little ones, he’s bringing Sirius out for walks. He takes his dog to their favourite dog park, where Harry buries his nose in a book for an hour or so while Sirius plays around with other dogs.

Sometimes, he visits Hermione at work in St. Mungos. He trails after her as she makes her rounds, observes her as she works (he’s particularly interested whenever she has a case of curse damage to sort out), and joins in her complaining over the cafeteria food. He’d visit Ron at work, but it’s against Auror policy to have a civilian tag along, even if that civilian was once an Auror and has defeated Lord Voldemort.

He meets up with Neville and Luna for a meal and a movie, and joins an impromptu Quidditch match at the Burrow, where Ginny makes sure to show Harry and her brothers just how much she’s improved while training with the Harpies.

He grudgingly works on his syllabus for the upcoming year, and figures out some new drills for Quidditch practice (Hogwarts had changed the format of Quidditch practices a few years ago; now, the captain of the team runs practices alongside the head of the house – it’s supposed to promote student-teacher cooperation, apparently).

His birthday party was a much appreciated surprise. On the 31st, Harry returns home from walking Sirius to find his house packed to the brim with his friends. He definitely did not expect this, for he was operating under the assumption that he’d be meeting up with the gang at the Leaky for a few drinks later that night. There’s cake (i.e. a lopsided entity made by Luna) floating by the kitchen counter, and various plates of finger food lazily making their way around the room. There’s music, lots of streamers, and balloons that giggled every time someone plays with them. The presents are stacked high by the fireplace. After a couple games of drunken Quidditch and a very intense match of exploding snap, Harry goes to bed that night feeling quite loved.

It’s already August when he receives a text from Draco, asking Harry to join both him and Narcissa for dinner at their new home.

 _Sure, it would be my pleasure_ , he responds.

Draco replies with a _Feel free to bring Sirius, if you’d like._

 

 

 

  
That Saturday, Harry Floos to the new Malfoy residence after chiming in advance.

He emerges out of the large, marble fireplace and takes a cursory glance around. It’s not as grand as their old Manor – they sold that right after Lucius’ trial and subsequent imprisonment –, but it’s definitely more elegant and homey.

“Potter,” Draco greets, strolling into the hallway. “No dog today?”

“I’m beginning to think that you asked me to come just to see Sirius,” Harry jokes, and a corner of Draco’s mouth tilts upwards.

“I guess you’ve figured it out,” he says, gesturing for Harry to follow him.

“Sirius is not fond of the fireplace,” Harry explains. “He’s only ever used the Floo once, and he was not pleased with his experience whatsoever.”

They enter the drawing room. Narcissa’s perched on the edge of an armchair, sorting through the flower arrangement that’s resting in the middle of a dark oak table.

“Harry!” She exclaims, rising to her feet the instant she notices Harry in the doorway.

“Narcissa,” Harry says warmly, dropping a kiss on both cheeks. She smiles and clasps Harry’s hand between her own.

“It’s good to see you,” she says. “Look at you; you’ve grown into quite a fine young man, haven’t you?”

“Well, I tried my best to,” Harry grins, and Narcissa gives him a fond pat on the cheek.

“The elves are just finishing up in the kitchen,” she tells him. “And I have a few things to do before dinner is served. Draco, why don’t you take Harry on a tour of the house?”

Draco inclines his head, and Narcissa releases Harry’s hand.

“I’ll see you at dinner,” she says, eyes twinkling.

 

 

 

  
They wander through hallways, with Draco a few steps in front of Harry, hands firmly in the pockets of his fitted slacks.

“Is your son around?”

“He is,” Draco answers, pausing at the landing of the second floor. “Would you like to meet him?”

“I would.”

“This way, then.”

As Harry follows Draco through the house, he notes that all the drapes have been drawn open, and all the rooms are filled with the light of the falling sun. It’s drastically different from how everything was shuttered and drawn in the old Malfoy Manor, and it’s a subtle testament to the changes the household has gone through.

Draco stops at a closed door towards the end of the hallway and knocks twice.

“Scorp?”

A moment later, the door opens and a small, blond head peeks out.

“Hi Dad.”

“Come on out, Scorp. I want you to meet someone.”

Harry watches, fascinated, as Draco holds a hand out towards his son, palm up. Scorpius Malfoy puts his own small hand into his father’s, and ambles out of his room.

“Hello,” Harry offers, lowering himself to Scorpius’ eye level. “I’m Harry. What’s your name?”

“Harry?” Scorpius looks up at his father. “Is this the Harry you always talk about?”

Draco pinks. “... Yes.”

“Hi Mr. Potter,” Scorpius says, turning back to look at Harry. Harry blinks. “My name is Scorpius. Like the star!”

“The constellation,” Draco corrects him quietly, and Scorpius nods emphatically.

Scorpius is undoubtedly Draco Malfoy’s son, Harry thinks. They’ve got the same startling grey eyes, the same sharp features, and the same icy blond hair. Except Scorpius’ is much shorter, the locks curling around his little ears.

“I’ve heard that you’re a good boy,” Harry says, and Scorpius beams proudly.

“Dad tells me that we should be nice to everyone,” Scorpius says, tone serious. “He says that life is too short for regrets. I don’t really know what that means yet, but I think I will when I get older.”

“I’m sure you will,” Harry agrees, throat suddenly a little dry. He ruffles Scorpius’ hair and marvels at how soft it feels under his fingertips.

“Dinner is in ten minutes,” Draco says to his son, “wash up and get ready to eat.”

He lets go of Scorpius’ hand, and the little Malfoy disappears back into his room with a cheery wave to Harry.

The adults stay in the hallway for a while, Harry still with one knee on the ground.

“I’ve never said he was a good boy,” Draco finally says, and Harry rises to his feet.

“Children are always good,” Harry says. “They’re nothing but good. Of course, it helps to have a good father, like he does.”

Draco fixes him with such a complex look that it leaves Harry feeling a little ruffled.

 

 

 

  
On the top floor, Harry spots a grand piano sitting in the corner of an otherwise empty room. The instrument is sparkling clean, and the lid is propped open.

“Do you play?”

Harry shakes his head a little woefully. “No, I was never given the opportunity to learn as a kid, and by the time I had the autonomy… life got a little busy. Do you?”

Draco strides towards the piano, runs a finger along the keys, and takes a seat.

Well, apparently he does.

The first note reverberates throughout the room, and Harry is instantly entranced. Draco doesn’t hesitate – he dives headfirst into the piece, lithe fingers dancing across the ivory keys like dancers on a stage. Serene music floods all of Harry’s senses, and he allows his eyes to flutter shut as he leans against the door.

But it ends all too soon, and Harry’s eyes fly open in time to see Draco rising from the piano bench.

“You play beautifully,” Harry compliments, stepping aside to let Draco through.

Draco laughs, and Harry makes out a twinge of bitterness behind the sound.

“When your childhood was filled with attending fancy events and learning skills that reflected your social status, being good at playing the piano is barely something to be proud of.”

“Win some, lose some,” Harry mumbles, and Draco tosses him a raised eyebrow over his shoulder.

 

 

 

  
The dining room is spacious, and Harry had expected a table of roughly the same size as the one that was present in Malfoy Manor. Suffice to say, he was more than a little surprised when he saw that the dining table is only able to fit six people, perhaps eight if the occupants shifted a little closer to each other.

“We don’t foresee a lot of visitors in the future,” Draco says quietly, catching the look on Harry’s face. Harry doesn’t quite know what to say to that.

A house elf pulls his chair back for him, and Harry thanks her after taking his seat.

The table is filled with food, but it’s a modest meal, considering the family that’s hosting it. Scorpius runs into the room, hugs Narcissa around the hips, and lets her usher him into his seat.

“I’ve washed up, Dad!”

Draco smiles and leans down to give his son a kiss on the crown of his head, long hair sweeping down to obscure his profile during that short action.

They tuck in, and Harry thinks that these mashed potatoes could give Mrs. Weasley’s a run for her money. He tells Narcissa that, and she laughs.

“Well, it’s all the elves’ work, really. Perhaps they use the same recipe that Molly does.”

Over the years, Narcissa had reached out to everyone she could think of, and offered her personal apologies on behalf of the Malfoy family. Nearly everyone had accepted them, Arthur and Molly Weasley amongst those.

“Say, Harry. I don’t believe I’ve ever asked; why did you choose to leave the Aurors?”

Harry takes a sip of his wine, smiles when Scorpius does the same (Scorpius was given grape juice in a wine glass, something that Harry found insanely adorable), and ponders Narcissa’s question.

“I guess I got tired of always going after dark wizards and witches,” Harry says. “I spent all my childhood doing that, and I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life doing the same. Being an Auror takes a lot of mental and physical strength, and that just wears you down over time. I know I once thought that being an Auror is my calling, but I’m perfectly happy doing what I’m doing now.”

Narcissa hums in understanding.

Draco drops a few long beans and carrots on Scorpius’ plate and asks, “What are you doing now? Mother said you’re working at Hogwarts.”

“Yeah, I teach Defence Against the Dark Arts. And I’m the flying instructor.”

At the look on Draco’s face, Harry guesses that the man’s trying his best not to roll his eyes in amusement.

“Of course you are,” Draco quips, and Harry snorts.

“What’s it like,” Draco continues, “teaching at Hogwarts?”

“It’s… fulfilling,” Harry remarks. “It’s nice to see children develop under your care, watch as their magic strengthens, as they come into themselves.”

Harry looks over at Draco when he feels the heat of those ever-sharp eyes on him; Draco returns his gaze evenly, but doesn’t ask any other questions.

 

 

 

  
Teachers are required to arrive at Hogwarts a week before school starts, so Harry finds himself starting to pack his trunk halfway into the month. Sirius, the poor dog, climbs into the trunk and rests his head on its front paws. The forlorn look he sends up to Harry has the man sighing.

“Don’t be like that,” Harry whines, crouching down next to the trunk. He reaches in and plays with the velvety softness of Sirius’ ear. “I’m gonna miss you too, buddy. I’ll try and get away from Hogwarts for an afternoon on a weekend, alright? Come see you and take you for a walk, yeah?”

Sirius nips at Harry’s hand and huffs.

“I’ll tell Luna to bring you those dog treats you love so much,” Harry offers. At that, Sirius’ eyes seem to gleam a little.

On the 21st of August, Harry lugs his trunk to the front door and gives Sirius one last hug before shrinking his luggage and slipping it into his pocket. Kreacher bows, promises to take care of the house, and waves at Harry’s slowly disappearing back until his master vanishes around the corner.

Harry could Floo to Hogwarts, but he prefers taking the longer way. From a deserted alley minutes from his house, Harry Apparates to Hogsmeade and stops by The Three Broomsticks for a drink and a chat with the (now elderly) Madam Rosmerta.

He still gets a few stares and poorly-hidden whispers, but he’s too used to them by now to really care. The walk from Hogsmeade back to Hogwarts is nice and quiet, and Harry takes a few moments to appreciate the peace of it all.

As he nears the castle grounds, he lets his gaze roam across the castle itself. He can still envision the piles of rubble scattered all over, the smashed windows, the blown-apart statues… But the whole school had banded together after the war, intent on restoring the castle to its former glory, and after weeks of intense labouring (even with the help of magic), they’d managed to do it.

At the castle doors, he passes Rhinne Abbey, a very excitable blonde who is the Head of Ravenclaw and the Transfiguration professor. They exchange friendly greetings, ask about each other’s summers, and when Harry’s about to enter the castle and head towards his quarters, Rhinne stops him with a question.

“Hey, do you know who the new Potions professor is?”

“Is it not still Viridian..?” Harry asks, puzzled.

“Nope. Viridian quit, quite suddenly, over the summer – her mother’s getting on in age, and she wants to spend time with her. The last time I spoke to Minerva, they haven’t found a suitable replacement yet.”

Harry frowns. “I haven’t heard anything, but I’m sure Minerva will find one in time.”

Rhinne hums in agreement, and waves to Harry before flouncing out of the gates.

 

 

 

  
On the 1st of September, Harry finds himself running just a teensy bit late. Too caught up in testing out his Quidditch drills on the pitch with a bunch of charmed dummies, he’d had to shower and dress with the speed of light. Students were already filing into the Great Hall when he skidded into the foyer, and Aria had rolled her eyes at him when he slid into his chair at the Teacher’s Table sheepishly.

He takes a glance to his left and right – there’s an empty seat towards the right end of the table.

“You haven’t found a Potions professor yet?” He asks, eyebrows scrunching together. “What are you going to –”

“Oh, we found one,” McGonagall replies, shoulders squared primly as she watches the first years gather in front of the sorting hat. “Quite at the last minute, however, so he’s making his way here as we speak.”

The Sorting ceremony commences, and Harry sits back to watch as nervous children step up to hear their fate. When all the first years have been sorted, McGonagall rises to her feet and sweeps down the table towards the golden podium.

“Good evening,” she begins, her voice magnified with a subtle sonorus. “To our new students, welcome to your first year at Hogwarts. To our returning students, welcome back. Now, before I address our staff, I would like to draw your attention to a couple of things. Several classrooms in the West Wing are undergoing some changes; these classrooms have been cordoned off. For your own safety, please do not enter them. Hagrid, our gamekeeper, has kindly informed me that there several young creatures roaming about the Forbidden Forest – they will leave you alone if you extend the same courtesy to them. Of course, the Forbidden Forest is off limits to students unless given permission, so avoiding these creatures should be quite an easy task. Additionally, any items purchased from Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes are banned from being used on the premises. If you wish to use any of these items, please do so outside the castle grounds. Now, on to our staff.”

Harry waits patiently for his turn to stand and wave, and just as he’s settling back down into his seat, the door to the Great Hall opens. A tall figure, back ramrod straight, strides into the Hall in a flurry of expensive, black robes, and Harry’s jaw falls open in surprise.

“Ah, great timing,” McGonagall says, clasping her hands together. “The second new member of staff is Draco Malfoy, the new Potions professor. Welcome, Professor.”

She claps her hands together, and the responding applause is muted and tentative at best. It doesn’t seem to faze Draco, however, and he settles into his seat at the Table with a nod at Harry.

“Now –”

Whispers had started as soon as McGonagall uttered Draco’s name, and the volume is steadily increasing. It doesn’t take being the smartest witch or wizard in the decade to figure out why.

“Excuse me, Headmistress,” Harry interrupts, rising to his feet.

McGonagall pauses.

“I’d just like to say the following: Professor Malfoy has been cleared of all charges regarding the war that took place _ten years ago_. I personally testified at his hearing, and I am confident that he is a reformed man. Besides, without his help, I would not have been able to kill Voldemort. Judge only after you’ve known all the facts. Thank you, Headmistress. Sorry for the interruption.”

He stares resolutely ahead, painfully aware of the icy heat of Draco’s eyes on the side of his face.

 

 

 

  
“You didn’t need to do that.”

Harry’s halfway up a flight of stairs, and the moment he turns around, the stairs start to move. Well, that’s another ten minutes of waiting. Draco’s standing on the bottom stair, looking up at him with stormy eyes.

“Do what?”

“What you said in the Hall. Standing up for me? You didn’t need to.”

“Okay, but –”

“I can take care of myself,” Draco interrupts.

“Did I say anything wrong, exactly?”

“I don’t like it when people take on my problems as theirs,” Draco says crisply. “I know you’ve done a lot for me, and I appreciate it, but when it comes to this, you really didn’t have any right to interfere. Like I said, I can deal with it myself.”

Utterly confused and more than a little offended, Harry simply turns away and climbs up to the highest step. They stay that way for the entire duration of the wait: Harry on the top stair and Draco on the bottom. The second the flight of stairs comes to a stop, they part ways without another word.

 

 

 

  
They don’t speak for weeks, save for giving each other civil greetings whenever they pass each other in the hallways. Already built on shaky ground, that arrangement suddenly topples on a particularly dreary Wednesday.

Harry and Mir are walking down the Serpentine Corridor when a flood of fourth-year students turn in from the first-floor corridor. A number of them seem to be engaged in a heated conversation, and just as they pass by Harry and Mir, Harry’s ears manage to pick up some choice words.

“Why do we have to be taught by a Death Eater? What if he has us make potions that will kill all the Mudbloods in this school? How do we –”

“ _Fifty points from Gryffindor_ ,” Harry thunders, spinning around on his heel to face the students. “For an utter lack of courtesy and respect for a professor, as well as the use of that despicable slur. What a disgrace to the Gryffindor House. If I hear anything along those lines coming from your mouths ever again, I will not hesitate in giving each and every one of you a month’s worth of detention. _Do I make myself clear?_ ”

“Yes, Professor Potter,” the students chime, appropriately chastised. One looks close to crying.

Harry doesn’t move until the students have disappeared past a corner. Then, he sighs and turns to Mir.

“You’d think that people would’ve learned something from that war,” he mutters, pushing his fingers irritably through his mop of hair. Mir gives him a sympathetic look as they continue making their way down the stone steps.

As the echo of their footsteps fade, Draco releases the breath he’s been holding and sags against the small section of wall that had kept him hidden from the view of the two professors.

 

 

 

  
“Potter,” Draco starts.

Harry and the student in front of his desk both turn around to look at the door. Draco sees the look in the student’s eyes and clears his throat, straightening to his full height. When he returns her gaze evenly, she flushes and gathers her books.

“We’ll talk another time, Callie,” Harry calls after her.

“Can I come in?” Draco steps aside to let Callie run past him and out into the hallway.

Harry simply gestures to the newly vacated chair across from him. Draco steps into the classroom and shuts the door behind him.

From his vantage point, Harry’s a little taken aback at how… _regal_ Draco looks. He’s got his hair swept back into his signature bun, and his robes must have been tailored in order to be able to drape so easily down his lean frame like they are.

Draco settles into the chair elegantly, smoothing down his robes – Harry catches a glimpse of a shirt collar – before leaning forward and looking straight into Harry’s eyes.

“I’m going to say a few things, and I would appreciate it if you would refrain from interrupting until I am done.”

Harry raises his eyebrows, an action Draco mimics with his own.

At Harry’s nod, Draco takes a readying breath.

“To you, I might seem like a completely changed man. Yes, in some aspects, I am. In others, however, I am very much the same person you met when we were eleven. I am still selfish, still proud, still confident in my abilities. I pride myself for being one of the best in the field, one of the best in our year. While I regret many of my past actions, I am not ashamed of them. Only acceptance will allow me to move on, and dwelling over what could have been is not the way to go. Accepting my mistakes wasn’t an easy concept to wrap my mind around, and while I’ve done it in part to educate myself on my family’s wrongful ideals, it was also in part due to public scrutiny. I simply cannot let my parents, and potentially the future of the Malfoy name, to suffer from our poor choices.”

He pauses, scratches at a spot behind his neck, and continues.

“As you are probably quite privy to, I am also a person who does not like to show any vulnerability. Emotions are a weakness, so I’ve been taught. What I am about to say to you is something that’s been a constant source of frustration to me over the past few years. I’ve always wanted to say this, and yet, at the same time, I have never wanted to. I don’t like feeling indebted to someone, a fact I’m sure is no surprise. So thank you, Potter, for testifying at our hearing. For returning my wand. For standing up for me when no one else would, even after the countless times our drastically different paths have crossed. Thank you for being the catalyst in the rediscovery of my self identity, for giving my family the chance to try and make reparations.

“I am also sorry. For my ridiculous immaturity as a child, for the things I’ve done in my quest to prove my worth to the wrong people. For my family’s actions and how they’ve caused you to lose people you hold dear; for always seeing things in black and white and never understanding that lines can be crossed, especially when it’s for the right reason. Sorry for slamming the door in your face when you came to return my wand, for breaking your nose, for attempting to use the Cruciatus on you. For a lot of things, really.”

Draco stops there, a little pink in the face, and Harry glimpses the tight grip the man has on the folds of his robes.

“Can I say something now? Or do you still have more to say?”

“I think I’m done,” Draco mumbles, slumping into the chair.

“Right. Malfoy. When we were kids, I thought you were a right ponce. An arrogant prick, someone who got his way because of your family’s influence and power. And I know you know that. I know your views of me back then weren’t stellar, either. Merlin, but we were kids. Kids thrown into something far, far beyond what any child our age should be able to tackle. Lives were in our hands. Hell, the entire fate of Britain’s magical community was in our bloody hands. You made bad choices, sure, but so did I. I acted on impulse more often than I should have. Logical thinking was a foreign concept, it seemed.

“We sacrificed a lot of things, to be who we are now. A proper childhood, for one. The chance to be friends. People we respect and people we love. Being able to go to school without fearing that war and death might occur the second we close our eyes and try to sleep. We weren’t able to have all that, all those years ago. But we can now. I know you didn’t ask for my… forgiveness, or anything like that, but I just want you to know that I forgive you. You were in a bad place, at the worst time, with a load of shitty influences. I’m not saying that without Voldemort you’d be an angel, because I still think you would’ve been a git, but you’d probably be much more tolerable.

“We’re more alike than you know, Malfoy. I probably understand you more than anyone else would. And for the record, I don’t think you needed to prove yourself, back then. Any sane person would’ve been able to see that you were a great wizard, regardless of which side of the war you were on.”

They stare at each other for a good twenty seconds before Draco sighs and breaks eye contact.

“I should get going. I have a class in ten. Thanks for letting me take up some of your time.”

“Alright,” Harry says, getting to his feet a moment before Draco does.

They walk to the door in silence, awkwardness and uncertainty tainting the air between them.

“Have a good afternoon, Malfoy. See you at dinner.”

Draco nods, steps through the door that Harry’s holding open for him, and turns to look over his shoulder.

“When you said that we had to sacrifice the chance to be friends…”

Harry waits patiently for the rest of the sentence, but Draco ends up closing his mouth and looking away with a shake of his head and a blush flooding his cheeks. Draco’s a few steps away when Harry decides to take initiative and call out after him.

“The first step of friendship is to be receptive to the idea of said friendship!”

Draco doesn’t try to fight the grin that slips onto his face.

 

 

 

  
It’s the last practice session before the first Quidditch game of the season, and Harry is thrumming with excitement. The team is looking good this year, and Harry is itching to have the Cup back in his hands. He’s walking out onto the field, equipment floating along behind him, when he feels a tug on his Quidditch robes.

“Teddy!”

Teddy beams up at him, hair blooming into a pleasant pink. “Hi Professor, I was just wondering if I could sit in and watch practice?”

The boy had tried out for the team this year, but failed to secure a place. Harry had to comfort his poor godson, telling the sniffling boy that he has time to grow and improve, and that Harry wholeheartedly believes in him. It took days to bring Teddy out of his slump, but Harry’s glad to see that he is now full of determination to work on his Quidditch skills.

“Of course,” Harry says, ushering Teddy towards the stairs that leads up towards the spectator stands. “Just make sure you’re far enough so that stray bludgers don’t come towards you.”

“Okay!” Teddy chirps, and bolts up the stairs.

Practice goes smoothly, save for a splintered broom belonging to one of the Chasers that Harry repairs at the end of the session with a simple wave of his wand. After dismissing his team, Harry spends a minute or two discussing a particular tactic (the Porskoff Ploy) with the team captain.

When Harry finally finds himself alone on the pitch, he directs the Quidditch balls back into their chest and locks it shut. Picking up his broom, he turns to glance at the stands – there, seated next to Teddy, is Draco. The two have their heads bowed, and Harry can’t quite tell what they’re looking at.

Curious, he leaves his things by a wall and traipses up the stairs towards the pair.

“Hi Professor Potter,” Teddy calls, waving at him as he looks past Draco’s frame.

“Hello,” Draco adds, the corner of his mouth quirking slightly.

“If there aren’t any other students around, you can call me Harry,” Harry says, giving Teddy a playful wink, one that Teddy returns. “And hi, Malfoy. Fancy seeing you here.”

“Draco’s helping me figure out the drills you’re running,” Teddy explains, gesturing to the notebook in his lap.

“Oh?” Harry moves to sit on Teddy’s other side. He peers down at his notes. “But what if Draco doesn’t know what he’s talking about?”

When he looks up, Draco’s already looking back at him. The use of his first name doesn’t slip Draco’s notice.

“I dunno,” Teddy says, frowning at his notes and completely oblivious to whatever’s happening between the adults. “I think it makes sense…”

Draco tucks a lock of hair behind his ear and gestures to his cousin with a slight tilt of his chin. Harry, getting the message, clears his throat and returns his attention to his godson.

“Well, I can spot a couple of little mistakes, but I guess it’s good enough,” Harry says, laughing when Draco snorts and crosses his arms.

“I’ll have you know,” Draco begins, “that I was Captain my final year of school, and I played for leisure while I was in Paris. I’m not as rusty at the sport as you think I am.”

“Bet you still can’t beat me,” Harry teases.

“I’ll take you up on that bet,” Draco says instantly. “But not today. I have classes to prepare for.”

“What about this weekend?” Teddy pipes up.

“Sorry buddy,” Harry says, “but after the match, I’m going home to check in on Sirius. I’ve got a couple of appointments lined up too, so I won’t be back until the next morning.”

“And I’m going home to see Scorp,” Draco adds. “I’ll be free next weekend, though.”

“Next weekend it is!” Teddy announces.

 

 

 

  
Gryffindor sweeps through their first match with an astounding win, crushing Slytherin 310-70. When the sharp blast of the whistle pierces through the air, Harry bullets towards his team, a grin on his face and adrenaline spearing through his veins. They huddle around him, sweaty limbs wound around each others’ shoulders, chanting _Gryffindor! Gryffindor!_ as they slowly float back down to the ground in a distended circle.

It takes a good twenty minutes for a group of teachers to usher the students down from the stands and back towards the school. Harry passes the Quidditch gear to McCallen, the team captain, and hangs back to wait for Teddy. Sure enough, the small second year comes running to him, face streaked with red and gold paint that had started to smear around his eyes and edges of his mouth. His flaming red hair is paired with gold eyes, and Harry thinks his godson is seriously adorable.

“That was a great game, Harry! All those tactics that you and the team worked on in practice and that Draco taught me about… wow! It was so –”

“Let the poor man catch a breath, Teddy.”

Harry turns around to see Draco, clad in his now-signature black, form-fitting robes, leaning against a large oak tree. His hair spills over a shoulder, pale strands catching the glint of the autumn sun. An image suddenly flashes in Harry’s mind; one of Draco as a child, hair slicked back with what must be a whole phial of hair potion. He has to admit – without the wet, tough look to that head of hair, the strands seem extremely soft.

“Great game,” Draco says. “Although… Your team made more than a few mistakes.”

Harry snorts, letting Teddy fiddle around with his broomstick. “Hey, nobody's perfect. But yes, you're right. Some formations were not as tight as they should have been, some passes were off, Bludgers could have been sent on better paths. But I'll make sure they work on it, don't worry.“

“Oh, who said I was worrying?”

With that, Draco turns around and starts on his way back up to the castle, bidding Harry and Teddy goodbye with a jaunty wave.

 

 

 

The next day, Harry makes his way to Hogwarts' Floo chamber right after breakfast. He's looking forward to a great Sunday, spending the afternoon with Sirius and the night with his friends. Having ditched his professor robes along the way, Harry strolls down the corridor in a very worn-in pair of jeans and a thick, wooly sweater that Molly may or may not have knitted for him. Whistling merrily, he rounds a corner and nearly runs right into someone's back.

“What – oh. Draco.”

Draco looks over his shoulder, surprise forming on his face. “Harry.”

The sound of his name spoken with that posh accent does something to Harry's blood, but he pushes the unexpected sensation away in favour of asking the other man what he's doing there.

“Heading home for the day,” Draco tells him, scribbling on a scroll of parchment lying on a small table next to the fireplace. “I was supposed to leave yesterday, but the pull of watching a Quidditch match was far too strong to fight.”

“Right,” Harry says, remembering the conversation they had a week ago with Teddy. “Say hi to Scorpius and Narcissa for me.”

Draco scoops up a handful of Floo powder, cradling it in his palm.

“I will,” Draco assures him, and throws the powder into the fireplace. He's gone in a flash of green, leaving afterimages flashing behind Harry's eyelids.

 

 

 

  
Once Sirius is clean and snoozing on his doggy bed by the window, Harry Floos to St. Mungos in search of a certain bushy-haired woman. He heads up to the fourth floor, and finds Hermione standing over her desk, hands on her hips.

“Hey, 'Mione. Everything okay?”

She huffs and pushes a few curls out of her face.

“A Muggle just got admitted,” she says. “Two wizards were duelling, and one deflected a series of curses that bounced straight off his shield charm onto a Muggle passing by. But for some reason, this particular combination of curses have caused something that even I have never seen before.”

“You'll figure it out,“ Harry assures her. “You always do.”

“Yeah,” Hermione groans, “but there's always a first for everything. What if this is the first time I fail at figuring it out?”

“Maybe it’ll help to revisit this case after a night of good food, some Firewhisky, and sleep. What do you think?”

He’s already got his hands on Hermione’s shoulders and is in the process of steering her out of her office when she relents and slips out from Harry’s hold to grab her bag.

“Alright, alright. You make a convincing argument. Let’s go.”

 

 

 

  
They meet up with Ron and Luna outside a Mediterranean restaurant in Muggle London, and they spend a couple of hours inside, tucked away into a corner booth nursing the bottles of Firewhisky Ron had brought that have been transfigured into tall glasses of water. They chat about everything, from Ron’s experiences with an infuriating Unspeakable who’s been appointed as a liaison between the Aurors and the DoM regarding missions that are ‘sensitive’, to Luna’s recent articles for _The Quibbler_ and the magazine’s steadily increasing sales, to Hermione’s new assistant – a fellow Muggleborn that loves comparing magical remedies to that of Muggle medicines, something that’s driving Hermione absolutely mad –, and to Draco’s unexpected arrival within Hogwarts’ halls.

“He’s different, as I’ve already said,” Harry says, leaning back in his seat. “But the same in many ways. We no longer wish to punch the living daylights out of each other, so I guess that’s good.”

“Blimey,” Ron mutters, taking a sip of Firewhisky. A waiter comes by and asks if Ron wants a refill of water, to which Ron smiles politely and declines.

“Never thought I’d witness that day,” Ron continues, munching on an olive. “The day that Potter and Malfoy are able to be in the same area for an extended period of time without wanting to rip each other’s throats out.”

“Better late than never,” Hermione quips. “It’s been years, it’s good to put unpleasant things behind you.”

“And Draco _is_ actually quite nice now,” Luna pipes in. “Did you know he donated some money for that fundraiser _The Quibbler_ hosted last year? His donation was what helped us reach our goal. The Muggles were quite happy with the outcome.”

“I didn’t know that,” Harry says. “But yeah, it sounds like something he’d do. Nowadays, anyway.”

“Do you two talk?” Hermione asks, her gaze curious and slightly hesitant. “I know you guys met up a couple of times during the summer, but I suspect it’s a little different when you’re both professors in Hogwarts?”

“Yeah, actually. He keeps to himself most of the time; not many people were thrilled about his new position as a professor, as I’m sure you can imagine. We had a few bumps along the road, but we’re okay now. I think Teddy notices how Draco’s always by himself, too. Lovely boy always tries to hang out with his cousin.”

“You and Andromeda brought him up right,” Hermione says, smiling. “But I am sorry to hear about the… cold welcome Draco received.”

Harry sighs. “Some prejudices are harder to get rid of than others."


	2. Chapter 2

Winter hits with an intensity that knocks the breath out of Harry’s shell-shocked lungs in a cloud of condensation. It’s colder at Hogwarts; being tucked away in the middle of a halo of snow-capped mountains doesn’t exactly help trap heat. Towards the end of November, Harry starts to cast warming charms on his robes the second he exits his quarters.

Thankfully, the second Quidditch game of the season takes place on a sunny day, and although it’s still as cold as the dreary day yesterday, the presence of sun gives everyone the illusion that it’s much warmer. Harry sees a few students with bright red ears – they had clearly taken one look at the sky and decided that wooly hats were not a necessary part of their outfit for the day.

The crowds are packed full of students, most decked out in Hufflepuff’s or Ravenclaw’s colours. Some students, as always, choose to remain neutral. The game starts with a blast of Harry’s whistle, and ends over an hour later when Hufflepuff cinches a narrow win, 280-250.

Harry’s just about to head back towards the castle when someone calls his name. He turns around to see Draco, all six foot of his elegant frame, strolling towards him. Draco’s nose isn’t even faintly red, Harry notes with a little jealousy. Of course Draco Malfoy thrives in the winter. Even his damned hair looks more perfect than usual with snowflakes in them.

“Hey,” Harry says, pushing his glasses up his nose. Unlike Draco, his nose is more than a little numb, and he can barely feel the weight of his glasses now.

“Hey yourself,” Draco responds easily. “Do you have time?”

“Yeah, I do. Is something the matter?”

“Would you like to have a small game of Quidditch? Seeker against Seeker? For old times’ sake, of course.”

There’s a glimmer of something in Draco’s eyes that Harry can’t quite figure out, but it’s what convinces him to agree.

 

 

 

  
There’s no one else on the pitch but the two of them, and a surge of competitiveness blazes through Harry’s veins as he hovers in the air, sharp eyes darting around for the golden speck of victory. It’s a form of competitiveness that only Draco manages to bring out in him, and Harry’s long forgotten what it feels like. Draco’s on the other end of the pitch, doing exactly the same thing, and Harry’s not surprised whatsoever when they spot the Snitch within mere milliseconds of each other. They plummet, brooms tilting so sharply that it takes all of the strength in their thigh muscles to stay on. Arms outstretched, fingers extended, jaws set – then, they collide.

Close enough to the ground to avoid severe injuries, they flip off their brooms and land on the grass (magicked to stay green all year round) with pained groans. Harry had slammed his chin into the jut of Draco’s clavicle, and he wonders briefly how a broken chin would look like.

“Well,” Draco pants, and Harry realizes with a start that he’s sprawled, quite literally, across the man beneath him. “I think I won.”

“What?” Harry oh-so-eloquently asks.

Draco glances down pointedly as Harry scrambles to sit upright.

Sure enough, the Snitch’s wings flutter uselessly against Draco’s fingers. Harry can feel the cool metal against the heel of his hand, but all he can focus on is the softness of Draco’s skin against his fingertips. It seems, that during their mad dash for the Snitch, that Harry had misjudged the distance just slightly; instead of the Snitch, he had closed his fingers around Draco’s wrist, whereas the other man had actually managed to grab the Snitch.

“Huh,” Harry says, and promptly releases Draco from his grasp. “You’re right.”

“I always knew the day would come,” Draco says, wincing as he slowly gets to his feet. “Where I’d finally beat the great Harry Potter. Of course I’d get a few bruises along the way, but I think the pain was worth it.”

Several pieces of hair tumble out of the bun atop Draco’s head, settling around the man’s jawline to frame his face like its an actual work of art. It could be, Harry thinks absently, then proceeds to blush hotly when he registers the thought. Draco doesn’t notice, thankfully, and Harry busies himself with prying the Snitch out of Draco’s hand and returning it to the chest.

“It was a well-deserved win,” Harry says, grabbing his broom out of the air. Draco does the same.

“Thanks,” Draco laughs, a melodic sound that fits the winter chill. “We can have another go someday; maybe I’ll let you win.”

“I’ll look forward to that,” Harry says, and means it.

 

 

 

 

December brings with it a load of homework for the students and flood of markings for the professors. Most assignments are due before the Christmas holidays, and students are spurred on by the prospects of leaving the castle for a few lazy weeks spent with their families back at home. Likewise, the professors do their utmost to ensure that their students submit decent assignments, as it makes marking them that much easier.

Harry is excited to be home, to curl up in front of the fireplace with Sirius’ warm body draped over his feet and a hot cup of cocoa in his hands. The Weasleys are hosting Christmas dinner again this year – of course –, and Harry can’t wait for the delectable feast. Molly always makes sure he’s got a couple of Korean dishes to remind him of his father and their heritage, and Harry never fails to show Molly just how much that small gesture means to him. Which reminds him; he really needs to get started on his Christmas shopping.

“Got plans for Christmas?” He asks, sitting back in his seat and wiping his mouth.

Aria swallows a mouthful of beef stew and points her fork at the ceiling. “Going to the Alps with my mother and her boyfriend. Looking forward to all the skiing, but not to the… canoodling. They’re like teenagers, seriously.”

Neville snorts. The Great Hall is slowly emptying as students and staff finish their dinner and head back to their quarters. Harry likes to hang back until the Hall is actually empty; he likes to people watch. Sometimes, his friends sit with him.

“Get yourself a boyfriend and give them a taste of their own medicine,” Neville suggests. “Or a girlfriend, whichever gets you going.”

“I don’t know if anyone _can_ match their level of disgusting,” Aria grumbles, taking a sip of her juice. Neville pats her back sympathetically.

“You’re coming for dinner, right? With Luna?” Harry asks, looking at Neville. His longtime friend nods.

“Yep. We’re gonna head to the hospital first though, check in on my parents. We may be a tad late.”

“Of course,” Harry says, “no one will mind. What about you, Rhinne?”

“I have family coming from… out of town,” she says, pulling a face. Ah, she means the Muggle side of her family.

“Will they be staying in Muggle London?”

“That’s the plan,” she answers. “I don’t think Gramps can take seeing anything magical, to be quite honest. Once, he saw a picture of my Grammy – who has been dead for twelve years, now – in my house, and his eyes nearly rolled out of their sockets when she waved at him.”

A quiet laugh a few seats away draws their attention over.

“Oh,” Aria exclaims. “Draco!”

“Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but I couldn’t help overhearing that last part.”

“It’s okay,” Rhinne shrugs. “I laughed too. Sometimes I think of messing around with Gramps, but my mother keeps reminding me he’s getting on in age.”

“Pity,” Draco says, a small smile on his face.

“What, er, are you doing for Christmas, Draco?” Neville asks, sounding more than a little awkward. Ever since the war, Draco and Neville haven’t spoken much, but Harry knows that Neville’s animosity towards Draco and his family has started to fade, largely thanks to Narcissa’s heartfelt apology on behalf of her late sister Bellatrix. Time, in general, is also a great salve for the wounded heart.

“Nothing big,” Draco says, prodding at the remnants of his food. “Spending it with my mother and son. Maybe we’ll visit Astoria; she always did like Christmas.”

The wistful note in Draco’s voice turns off Harry’s brain-to-mouth filter, and he finds himself inviting Draco and his family to the Weasley dinner. Neville turns to him, clearly surprised.

Draco raises an eyebrow. “Thank you, Harry, but I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“It’ll be fine,” Harry insists, although something inside him instantly gnaws on that statement. “Everyone’s grown up and moved on. Besides, Christmas is meant to be loud and sugar-filled, and no offence, but I don’t think your Christmases are like that.”

“They’re not,” Draco concedes. “I will… think about it. Thank you, again.”

Harry nods, exchanges a look with Neville, and ignores the women’s amazed, albeit nonplussed, expressions.

 

 

 

  
On the third week of December, the castle is alight with excitement. Most of the students are leaving for home in a few hours, and Harry’s finishing up a bunch of paperwork before he too, heads home.

When evening comes around, the castle is unusually quiet, with most of its students in the train on their way home. Harry, throat raw with all the shouting he had to do in order to make sure the kids made it on the Hogwarts Express without any major mishaps, shuffles towards his chambers for a quick change of clothes.

He hangs up his robes, pats his pockets to check for his keys, and heads for the Floo. When he signs the register, he spots Draco’s name and learns that the man had left just a few minutes ago. There’s a twinge of disappointment settling somewhere behind his gut, but Harry pointedly ignores it. Setting the quill back into its spot by the parchment, Harry picks up a handful of Floo powder and calls for home.

He emerges in his living room, Kreacher appearing not a second later in the hallway with a loud crack and a cup of mulled cider. Sirius darts into the room, barking happily with a Christmas wreath around his neck, and Harry laughs. He really loves Christmas.

 

 

 

 

On his third day back home, Harry heads out to pick up a Christmas tree. Unlike most wizarding fold, Harry chooses to have a new tree each year instead of charming one tree to essentially, live forever. It’s a tradition now, to replant Christmas trees in Godric’s Hollow the day after Christmas and start the process all over again the next year.

It’s not part of the tradition, however, to run into Draco and Scorpius at the tree farm. It’s more of an anomaly, really. A big anomaly.

“Uncle Harry!” Scorpius is the first one to notice Harry, and Harry looks around for the source of the familiar voice before spotting Scorpius waving at him from around a large fir a few metres away.

“Hi!” Harry says, waving back. He looks around for Draco, but doesn’t spot him. “Where’s your dad?”

“Here.” The voice floats over Harry’s shoulder, and Harry turns to see Draco walking over with a receipt in hand. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Draco is in a _peacoat_ and a _beanie_. Harry blinks.

“Oh, uh, yeah. I get my tree here every year.”

“Every year?” Draco tilts his head.

“Yeah. I get a new one each year. I replant them in Godric’s Hollow; makes it feel like I get to spend it with my parents, somehow.”

Draco nods, swallows, and looks over Harry’s shoulder to beckon at his son.

“Let’s go buddy, your Grandma’s waiting for us in the car.”

“You drive?” Harry blurts.

Draco barks out a short laugh. “Yes, Harry, I drive. Never saw that coming, did you?”

“Never,” Harry admits.

“It’s handy,” Draco says. “Sometimes.”

“Just sometimes,” Harry teases, and Draco gives him a lopsided smile before taking Scorpius’ hand in his and turning away.

But the pair stop in their tracks after a few steps, and Harry waits for whatever Draco wants to say.

“Your offer; is it still standing?”

Harry doesn’t need to ask to know what Draco’s referring to. “It is.”

“Then we’ll come,” Draco says, back still to Harry.

“I’ll see you there.”

 

 

 

  
Christmas Day brings with it a light flurry of snow, and Harry Apparates to the Burrow with all of the presents stuffed into one of Hermione’s delightful Extended bags and Sirius clinging onto his torso. Once his feet touch solid ground, Sirius wriggles out of his hold and bolts inside the house, desperate for the love that he’s sure to receive. Sure enough, Harry walks into the kitchen to find the younger Weasleys showering Sirius with enough affection to last until next Christmas.

“Don’t inflate his ego too much; I think he’s already worse than I was, and he’s been alive for only a few years.”

Harry turns around with a grin that develops into a laugh when he spots Sirius, his godfather, grinning back at him from his portrait.

“Well,” Harry says, “he certainly takes after you.”

Together, they watch the labrador dash outside into the yard, Ginny jogging after him.

“He says not to inflate the dog’s ego,” Remus mutters, strolling into Sirius’ portrait. “And yet here he is, with his own ego blowing up exponentially.”

“Oh shut up, Remus. It’s Christmas,” Sirius snaps, and Harry leaves the two to bicker it out with a chuckle. He gives Molly a hug and a kiss on the cheek, Arthur a handshake, and dumps all the presents out beneath the Christmas tree, over the large pile that’s already there. Above his head, Christmas faeries wave merrily at him, and he waves back.

“Well, if it isn’t Harry Potter!” Someone crows, and Harry turns around to see George ambling into the kitchen.

“Georgina,” Harry greets, snickering when George glares at him.

“How many times do I have to tell you that –”

“– You hate that nickname,” Harry finishes for him. “I know. But Fred likes it, and honestly, you make a good Georgina.”

George shushes him, but Harry pictures George as a child, dressed in a frilly purple dress with a matching ribbon around his head, and snorts so hard that Arthur turns around in his seat in alarm.

“Please,” Fred says, leaning against his frame. “Everyone knows about Georgina. It’s general knowledge by now, George.”

“Yeah,” George mutters, “but that doesn’t mean you have to go around _reminding_ people of it.”

“Angie does a pretty good job of that,” Fred points out. “You don’t get pissy at her.”

“I _can’t_ get pissy at her,” George retorts, “because then _she'll_  get pissy at _me_ , and I’ll be banished to the sofa for three nights.”

“What’s that, dear?” Angelina says sweetly, strolling into the kitchen. Judging from the look on her face, she’s heard everything. She winks at Harry, who grins back, and fixes her gaze back onto her husband.

“Nothing!” George answers immediately. “Hey, Harry brought Sirius; let’s go play with him, yeah? Where are the kids?”

He all but yanks Angelina outside, and Fred mutters something along the lines of _I didn’t train him enough for this_  before disappearing.

 

 

 

  
Everyone’s settled around the table – well, mostly everyone. Harry notes three empty seats. Molly gives him a kind smile, and Harry lifts a shoulder in return.

“Perhaps they’re running late,” she suggests, and Harry wonders why it sounds as though she’s trying to comfort him. But he agrees, and she squeezes his shoulder once before going back to setting the table.

Molly’s just placing the bowl of mashed potatoes down on the table when a knock sounds.

All eyes turn to Harry, even the portraits’, and it feels as though he’s got a spotlight trained right on him when he gets up to answer the door.

It’s the Malfoys, and Harry releases a breath.

“Hi,” he says. Scorpius waves merrily, Narcissa smiles, and a muscle in Draco’s throat flexes. “Come in.”

The chatter around the table dies down somewhat when Harry leads them in, and the slight tension is only broken when Teddy waves at his cousins and great-aunt, greeting them in a carefree way that only children are able to.

Then, Luna stands, shakes Draco’s hand and gives a stunned Narcissa a gentle kiss on the cheek. Neville greets them all with a wave, and slowly but surely, everyone else takes a turn. Harry doesn’t know why his nerves are so high-strung, but they begin to relax with every handshake Draco gets, with every ruffle of Scorpius’ hair, with every kiss to Narcissa’s cheek.

“Sorry we’re late,” Draco says, watching as Teddy scoots over to make space for Scorpius. Molly gently guides Narcissa into a seat next to her, and Harry fixes Draco with a look until the latter settles down into the empty chair next to him.

“It’s quite alright,” Molly says, waving her wand. Three empty goblets fill up with liquid; wine for the adults and juice for the child.

“Scorpius wanted to get Sirius some doggie snacks,” Narcissa explains. “He wouldn’t leave the store until he convinced Draco to buy one of each kind.”

“Grandma!” He cries. “It was supposed to be a surprise!”

Everyone at the table laughs at the chagrined look on Narcissa’s face, and even Sirius’ portrait breaks out into a grin.

 

 

 

  
Harry sits by the fire, nursing a mug of cocoa (with toasted marshmallows sprinkled liberally on the top) and watching as the young ones keep Sirius busy. The dog’s covered in tinsel, and there’s a tiny Santa hat perched on the tip of his nose. Roxanne’s managing to balance on Sirius’ back, Fred Junior holding his little sister’s hand as Sirius trots around in a circle. The older adults are inside, chatting about the things that only people their age chat about, while the rest of them are scattered all over the place.

George, Angelina, and Ginny are busy setting up a makeshift Quidditch pitch – it’s a Weasley gathering, there’s bound to be a Quidditch game –; Ron and Hermione are a few feet away, huddled under a blanket and probably whispering sweet nothings to each other; Neville’s indulging Luna as she wanders into the cornfields in search of some weird magical creatures; and Percy is probably holed up in his room, haughty nose buried in some Ministry text.

So that leaves Draco with Harry.

“It’s nice,” Draco says into his own cup of cocoa. “All this. It’s…”

“A big family,” Harry says, and Draco nods.

“Yeah.” He pauses, stares deep into the cocoa as if it contains some answers to the mysteries of life. Harry glances at the man’s profile out of the corner of his eye, notes the gentle fan of pale lashes across an equally pale cheek.

“I always thought,” Draco ventures on, “that my family had it all. That we were… I dunno, ideal.”

Harry hums, and Draco sighs. His breath comes out in a visible puff.

“But I’ve missed out on so much,” Draco says. “You can’t buy love, of any sort, regardless of how many Galleons you’ve got in your vault. I thought my father expressed his love in a different way, but –”

He cuts himself off, shakes his head, and takes a sip of his cocoa. Harry notices the faint trembling of his fingers, but chooses not to comment.

“If it’s any consolation,” Harry starts, “my childhood wasn’t great, either. I didn’t know what it meant to have a family until I came to Hogwarts, until I met the Weasleys and the others.”

Draco says nothing, but he does look over, and Harry takes that as a sign for him to continue speaking.

“I wasn’t very well liked by my aunt’s family,” Harry says, words a little jerky. He doesn’t like talking about his time with the Dursleys, even till this day. “My aunt never approved of my mother wedding a man of another race, for one. The whole wizard thing just… well, it was the last straw. I was, for all intents and purposes, a true freak of nature. So they treated me as such. I did the housework, did the cooking, did my cousin’s homework. Did you know, I lived in a cupboard under the stairs?”

Draco shoots him an alarmed look, and Harry chuckles dryly.

“I was short back then, as I’m sure you remember. I wasn’t even able to stand, in that cupboard. I had three toy figures, all the size of my pinky finger. I owned five shirts, two pairs of trousers, and three pairs of pants. Four pairs of socks, I think. I had to do my own laundry by hand, because they didn’t want my clothes mixed with theirs. I ate their leftovers. Sometimes, they fed me expired food. Not often, mind, but enough.”

“Harry, I –”

Harry shrugs. He shifts around on the cushion, knee bumping into Draco’s. Neither one of them makes to move away.

“Magic saved me,” Harry admits. “For once in ten years, I finally had something to use against them. I got my own bedroom, after first-year. Sure, they put bars on my window, but I could stand and walk around in my own room. I had a closet!”

He watches Victoire chase Teddy round and round in circles.

“I remember the day I bid them goodbye. It was like shedding a layer of skin, you know? Just… leaving that life behind, leaving that pathetic excuse of a family behind. I’m grateful, to an extent, of course, because they took me in. Not out of love, I’m sure, but they did. And it was because they did that I managed to meet this family.”

He gestures vaguely around them; Hermione catches his gaze and smiles.

“I guess what I’m trying to say,” Harry mumbles, a little embarrassed from spilling so much about his childhood to someone he’d once hated with a passion. “Is that family doesn’t necessarily have to remain within your bloodline.”

“I know that,” Draco says, setting down his empty mug. A few seconds later, the mug refills itself, complete with freshly toasted marshmallows. Draco stares at it, surprised, and Harry feels his lips twitch into a smile.

“I know that,” Draco repeats. “But it’s easier to have such a family when you’re… liked, I suppose.”

“Right,” Harry agrees. “But better late than never, yeah?”

“I guess so.” Draco gazes at the children, a faint crease between his eyebrows.

“You’re a great dad, Draco,” Harry says. “You’re giving Scorpius what you’ve been looking for in a family. I know it’s hard without his mother, but he’ll grow up to really appreciate it.”

Draco turns to him, rests his sharp chin in his palm. His eyes remind Harry of the full moon.

“I’m trying,” Draco tells him. “Very hard. To make sure Scorpius enjoys his childhood. That he knows he’s loved. I don’t want him to end up like me.”

“He knows he’s loved,” Harry says, gaze flicking to the young Malfoy. Scorpius has snow all down the back of his jumper, and his cheeks are pink with the cold. But he’s got the sweetest grin on his face, and it’s genuine.

“And while I will admit that having another young Draco Malfoy running around in Hogwarts sounds like a proper nightmare,” Harry grins at Draco’s roll of his eyes, “you should be proud if he ends up like you when he’s older. You’re a good man, Draco. We’ve all made mistakes. Don’t carry that around with you for the rest of your life; it bars happiness from truly finding you.”

Harry doesn’t expect a hand on his own, but it’s there nonetheless. Draco’s touch is warm and soft, and Harry finds that he likes it.

“Thanks,” Draco says. “You’re not too bad yourself.”

Harry’s lips slant into a lazy smile, and Draco snorts before removing his hand. But Draco doesn’t even try to hide his own smile, and it warms Harry’s insides better than Molly’s famed cocoa will ever do.

 

 

 

  
“ _Presents_!” Rose shrieks, charging into the house and nearly knocking Fleur right off her tiny feet. Her brother comes barrelling in after her, and Hermione winces when they crash into Molly, sending a few plates soaring into the air.

They freeze mid-fall, however, and everyone turns to see Draco with his hand outstretched.

“Oh,” he utters. “Um. Scorpius has a habit of not looking out for potential obstacles when he runs, too.”

Hermione giggles, Ron nods thoughtfully, and Scorpius pouts. Molly collects the plates with a heartfelt _thank you_ that Draco accepts with polite nod.

When everyone’s settled into a circle, presents start floating out from beneath the tree towards their intended recipients.

It’s clear the the Malfoys didn’t expect to receive anything, so when they find their laps weighed down with several packages, Harry can’t help but smile at the astonished looks on their faces.

Casual chatter fills the room alongside the sound of tearing paper (and excited squeals from the children); Harry receives the customary Weasley Christmas Sweater, along with mountain of other gifts, including self-repairing glasses (from Hermione), year-round box tickets to all of Ginny’s Quidditch games (from Ginny herself), a weird potted plant that resembles a cactus but has tiny tongues in place of thorns (from Luna), matching collars for him and Sirius (from Ron, who sniggers when Harry fixes him with a flat look), and a miniature figurine of Hedwig.

He looks up at Draco, surprised and a little emotional, mini-Hedwig perched daintily on his finger. She’s the height of his middle finger, but her regal gaze still manages to fill every crevice of Harry’s heart. Draco’s already donned his own Weasley Christmas Sweater, looking a little touched, and Harry vaguely remembers Ron complaining to his mother that Draco gets a nice emerald green while he’s stuck with a muddy red. Molly had hit him upside the head.

“I noticed that you still don’t have an owl, even after all this time,” Draco mumbles. “You use the school’s. I took a wild guess.”

“Thank you,” Harry says, petting mini-Hedwig on the head with a fingertip. “This is lovely.”

“She won’t make a mess like actual owls do,” Draco adds. “But she won’t be able to deliver mail, either.”

“It’s more than enough just to have her back,” Harry says, “even if it’s just a model of her. Thank you, really. It’s very sweet of you.”

Draco pinks and goes back to fiddling with the package in his hands, one that Harry instantly recognises.

Inside is a crystal ball, much like the ones that filled the Hall of Prophecy in the DoM. But this one is pitch black, save for a handful of sparkles – they’re two constellations, one of Draco and one of Scorpius. The constellations float within their sphere of sky, and they glimmer much like the real ones do.

“This is…”

“It’s beautiful, Harry.” Hermione says, looking at the crystal ball.

Draco simply nods in agreement, apparently speechless.

Harry waves his hand over the globe, and it floats out of Draco’s palms into the space above them. The glass melts away, and the sky within stretches out in front of them, until it paints the ceiling black. The constellations grow to fit their sky, and everyone takes a moment to gaze up at the stars.

Mini-Hedwig hoots, sounding just like Hedwig, and flutters into the piece of sky above them.

Harry, feeling a little hot around the collar, chances a glance at Draco. Draco’s looking right back at him, and Harry lets out a shaky laugh.

“She likes it up there,” Harry comments, gesturing at Mini-Hedwig as she weaves in and out of the stars.

“I would too, if I were her,” Draco says.

Harry doesn’t quite know what to say to that, and Draco doesn’t look away.

Across the room, Scorpius shakes Teddy excitedly and points at his namesake. “Look! It’s my name!”

At that, Draco finally looks away. “Yeah, bud, it’s your name. Beautiful, right?”

Harry looks up again. In all honesty, he thinks Draco is more breathtaking. Dragons have that effect, after all. Too caught up in his own thoughts, he misses the knowing smile that Narcissa has on her face.

“Happy Christmas,” he says softly as Mini-Hedwig hoots.

“Happy Christmas,” Draco echoes.

 

 

 

  
Harry spends New Year’s Eve with Sirius, standing out on his patio, watching Mini-Hedwig fly around his yard. His phone floods with New Year’s greetings, and somehow, Harry thinks, it’s one of the best New Year’s Eves he’s ever had.

 

 

 

  
The school term starts with a bang. Quite literally, for a third year student accidentally sets off a bunch of fireworks from Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes in the Great Hall during the feast. McGonagall clears the mess with a simple wave of her wand, fixes the student with her signature flat stare, and heads back to her seat with a swish of her robes.

“I think poor Anie might piss her pants,” Aria notes. “Minerva, maybe you should tone that stare down just a tad. She’s so _pale_.”

“I will not,” McGonagall says primly. Harry grins when she winks at him.

He’s just finished ushering a couple of loitering sixth years back to their dormitories when someone taps him on the shoulder.

“Hey,” Draco says, falling into step with Harry as they climb a flight of stairs.

“How did your New Year’s go? Didn’t get a chance to ask you at dinner, Mir seemed really interested in whatever you were talking about.”

“I mentioned that I studied a bit of Muggle maths during those years I immersed myself in Muggle culture, and he… well, got a little too enthusiastic about it. But my New Year’s was nice, thanks for asking. Brought Scorp out to see the fireworks.”

“Yeah? I’m sure he enjoyed them.”

“Oh yes,” Draco says. “Quite a bit. How about you?”

“Mine was a quiet one,” Harry answers, “but enjoyable all the same.”

They walk in silence towards their quarters, and when Harry’s due to make a turn while Draco continues on ahead, Draco stops Harry with tentative fingers around Harry’s wrist.

“I was wondering,” he begins, sounding very nervous, “if you’d like to head out with me the next time there’s a Hogsmeade outing?”

Harry pauses, the question running through his brain a million times a minute. Is this…?

“Are you,” he says, licking his lips. He watches as Draco’s eyes follow the movement. “Are you asking me out on a date?”

Draco shrugs, a little helplessly, and runs a hand through his silky waterfall of hair. “Maybe, perhaps, if you want it to be. Honestly, I don’t even know if you are inclined in that particular –”

“It’s a date,” Harry interrupts. Draco stares, gaze as thick as smoke.

“A date,” Draco echoes. Harry nods, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“If you want it to be,” Harry says, and Draco huffs a laugh.

“Yeah, Merlin, okay. I’ll uh, see you around?”

“G’night, Malfoy,” Harry says, enjoying the feel of the name around his tongue when not spoken with malice.

“Goodnight, Potter,” Draco returns, and they part ways with thundering hearts.

 

 

 

  
“Do you remember that time in third year, when you found Ron and Hermione out here?”

They’re walking along the barbed wire fence intended to keep young, curious students away from the Shrieking Shack, shoulders barely brushing as their hands stay warm in charmed pockets.

“Yeah?” Draco answers, unsure of where this conversation is heading.

“You were, of course, antagonizing them,” Harry continues, making sure to keep a light lilt to his voice.

“Right,” Draco says, still sounding a little chided. Harry nudges him gently in the shoulder.

“Snowballs flew out of nowhere, yeah?”

Draco pauses, eyebrows drawing together.

“That was you?”

Harry chortles, kicking up a small flurry of snow. “Yep.”

“I actually thought there was a ghost of some sort,” Draco says, indignant.

“Oh I remember,” Harry says. “You ran away pretty fast.”

Draco promptly scoops up a handful of snow and packs it down the back of Harry’s sweater. It’s freezing cold, sending icy aftershocks dancing up and down his spine, but he’s laughing too hard to care. Draco even ends up smiling at the mirth plastered across Harry’s face.

When the laughter finally dissipates from his system, Harry brushes a layer of snow off a rock and casts a hasty warming charm over the surface. He takes a seat, gestures to the space next to him, and Draco settles down too.

“We’ve come a long way, haven’t we?”

Draco hums his agreement. “Didn’t think this is where we would end up.”

“Outside the Shrieking Shack or on a date?”

“Both,” Draco says, and Harry can’t argue with him there. He didn’t see this coming, either.

They sit in companionable silence, Harry pulling two bottles of Butterbeer out of his pockets. Draco doesn’t even seem surprised, and they relish in the warm slide of the beverage down their throats, settling comfortably in their stomachs.

“What’s that saying?” Draco asks, suddenly. “Something about opposite people working out?”

“Opposites attract,” Harry answers.

“That’s the one.”

“It’s a reference to magnets,” Harry says. “You’ve definitely come across them during your journey through the Muggle world.”

“I have,” Draco says, “but I never really understood how they work.”

“Honestly, I don’t either,” Harry grins. “But opposites do attract, and that’s all that matters, right?”

If they press a little closer to each other, neither one of them points it out.

“It is,” Draco agrees, and reaches out to push a wayward lock of hair out of Harry’s eyes.

The brief brush of Draco’s fingertips against his scar has Harry flushing hot like a potato dropped into a pot of boiling water. The corner of Draco’s mouth curls, but he doesn’t tease Harry about it.

“Can I ask you a question?” Draco says instead, and Harry nods. “Why didn’t you and Ginny work out?”

“Being thrown headfirst into a war does things to a relationship,” Harry sighs. He’s always wondered what life would have been like if they did work out; would they be married by now? Would they have kids? Their own home out in a countryside? Would Ginny still be playing with the Harpies? Would he have come work in Hogwarts? So many questions, and no way of answering them.

“And I doubt that we were ever truly in love with each other,” Harry admits. “I was very enamoured with her, and she’s a great person to be with. She’s funny, gorgeous, with an attitude that keeps you on your toes. But we just… never connected the way a couple should. She loved me, and I loved her, but were we in love with each other?”

Harry lets the rhetorical question hang, heavy in the air.

“We had to deal with too many things after the war; that didn’t help much. We never really had the time nor the opportunity to discover each other, either. It’s hard to be in a relationship that way, you know? It’s for the better though. I think she’s seeing someone now, and she seems happy.”

His gaze slips down to watch as Draco toys with the empty bottle in his hands.

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“What was it like, with Astoria?”

“We married out of necessity, as you know,” Draco says, bending down to set the bottle in the snow. His hair spills forward, caresses his cheek, and Harry catches a whiff of roses and some other flower, a scent that seems oddly familiar. “We were friends, good enough friends, I dare to say. Life was… good, with her. But we would never have worked, romantically.”

Harry waits, draining the rest of his Butterbeer as he does.

“I was confused throughout most of my childhood, and it took getting married to Astoria to figure it out, but yeah, I’m bent. She probably figured it out before me, if I’m honest. Father was upset when he found out, predictably, but because I had already produced an heir, he wasn’t about to have a right fit over it. Mother suspected all along.”

“Mothers always know,” Harry comments, and his quip is rewarded with a soft smile.

“When did you find out?”

“I always kind of knew,” Harry says. “Gender never mattered to me. I like a person for who they are, not what’s between their legs.”

“Have you ever,” Draco starts, but stumbles over an appropriate choice words.

“Been with a man?” Harry guesses. Draco nods. “To an extent. Not all the way.”

“Ah,” is Draco’s response. A beat, then: “I haven’t.”

“No?”

“No,” Draco confirms. “No wizard desires to be seen with a Malfoy. And while I’ve gotten plenty of offers from Muggles, I’m pretty sure my father would die of an aneurysm if he ever found out.”

“I’m a wizard,” Harry points out.

“That you are,” Draco concedes, and the set of his shoulders relax slightly.

 

 

 

  
They stay on that rock until it’s time to head back, trading little tidbits of their lives with the other. The sun’s hanging low on the horizon by the time they step foot onto castle grounds, and they stop at one of the side entrances. Harry has a meeting with the Quidditch team captains, and Draco has an appointment with a seventh year in relation to this year’s N.E.W.T.s.

“I had a great time,” Harry says, settling into a space between the door and the wall behind. Draco stands a few inches away.

“Likewise.”

Something churns in Harry’s stomach, and when Draco bites his lip, Harry takes a chance and steps forward.

“Can I –?”

“Please,” Draco whispers, the word catching in his throat.

It’s Harry that closes the (small) distance between them, a hand reaching up to settle tentatively behind the curve of Draco’s jaw. He thumbs at the soft skin of Draco’s cheek, a little reverent, and Draco’s eyes slide shut. Harry curses those damned eyelashes for what seems like the upteenth time before he leans in, tilts his head, and slots their lips together.

Draco’s taller than him, and back then Harry would’ve hated that fact, but now, Harry likes how he has to angle his face slightly upwards to reach the other man’s mouth. He likes how Draco’s shoulders curl in towards him just a little, likes how it makes him feel secure. He likes the gentle swipe of Draco’s tongue across his bottom lip and into his mouth, likes the small sounds that Draco makes, likes the pressure of Draco’s fingers on his hips, pressing down his spine.

The kiss seems to go on forever, but when they finally part, it seems like it’s only lasted a second.

“Okay,” Harry breathes, focusing on the sleekness of Draco’s hair between his fingers. Draco rests the bridge of his nose on Harry forehead and inhales.

“You smell like – you smell familiar,” Draco mumbles, sounding a little disconcerted.

“Well, we walk past each other all the time,” Harry says, confused. Draco takes another whiff.

“No, that’s not what I mean, it’s like I’ve – oh my god.”

The tone of Draco’s voice has Harry pulling back instantly, the fuzziness from their kiss giving way to a nervous buzz.

“Amortentia,” Draco half-whispers, half-declares.

“The love potion? I smell like – what?”

“Sixth year. Potions class,” Draco says, like it explains everything. He gives Harry a few seconds to process that bit of information, and Harry realizes that, yes, it actually does explain everything.

“You mean,” Harry says, slow. “You mean to tell me that you smelled me.”

“I smelled Quidditch gear, a mix of spice and pickled vegetables – I still don’t know what that is, by the way – and this. The mix of your shampoo and your natural scent.”

Harry can almost feel his pupils dilating. “Kimchi.”

“Huh?”

“The pickled vegetables. Spices. It’s a traditional Korean dish.”

Draco only gapes at him.

“That explains it,” Harry continues, sounding a little weak. “The scent of roses. There was something else, probably another flower, but I don’t recognise it.”

“What?”

“ _Your_ hair,” Harry explains, tugging on a handful. “It smells like roses.”

“Yeah. And narcissus,” Draco says. “My mother’s personal blend.”

“I smelled treacle tart, the woody scent of a broomstick handle, and something flowery. That ‘something flowery’ is your hair.”

They stare at each other, bones a little rattled by the information, until Draco frowns slightly.

“What does treacle tart have anything to do with me?”

“I only like the treacle tarts at Hogwarts,” Harry says. “And I only ever see you at Hogwarts.”

“Okay,” Draco nods. “Okay. Salazar. Right. So, uh, I’m going to kiss you again now.”

Harry barely has time to voice his assent before those ridiculously soft lips are back on his, this time with a little more fervor, a little more need, and lot more tongue.

They end up arriving to their respective appointments twenty minutes late, but only Harry’s hair is a mess. Draco’s doesn’t betray him like Harry’s does. Draco’s lips, however, are kiss-swollen, something that Harry enjoys a little too much, judging by the slight tightness in his pants as he hurries away.

 


	3. Chapter 3

After a few weeks of meeting up with Draco in the Astronomy Tower for snogging sessions when everyone else has gone to bed, Harry finally gathers the courage to Floo Hermione. Crouching down by the fireplace in his quarters – big enough to stick his head in, but not enough to actually step through –, Harry sticks it pillow beneath his knees and inhales shakily.

His friends deserve to know, he tells himself, willing his mental voice to stay strong and even. A pinch of powder causes the flames to glow green, and Harry sticks his face into the heat.

“Hermione?”

He hears the pitter patter of feet, and a few seconds later, Rose appears.

“Hi munchkin,” Harry says, smiling at her. She beams down at him.

“Hi Uncle ‘Arry!” She choruses, fiddling with a loose thread on her fleece pants.

“Can you get your mommy for me?”

She nods solemnly, as if she’s been given a mission of the utmost importance, and scurries away. After a few moments, Hermione strides into view, her favourite pair of bunny slippers leading the way.

“Harry? Is something the matter?”

“I have something I need to tell you. And Ron, but you can just tell him later.”

“Tell me what?”

Ron walks into view and plops himself down on the ground next to his wife. He’s got a weird film of something painted on his face, and Harry gives him an odd look.

“It’s a face mask,” Hermione explains.

“Deep pore cleansing, she says,” Ron adds, lips moving stiffly.

“Right,” Harry says. “Let me know how clean your pores get.”

“Will do, mate.”

“I doubt you called just to talk about Ron’s pores,” Hermione says flatly. “What is it, Harry?”

Does he just blurt it out? _Yeah, I’m sort of dating the wanker we all hated as children?_ Or does it require more tact? Harry doesn’t quite know.

“You’re looking a little constipated there,” Ron notes, squinting into the fire. “Is that the problem? ‘Mione can probably whip something up that’ll help with your fibre levels.”

“What? No, I’m not _constipated_ ,” Harry fumbles. “I’m just – I’m.”

He takes a breath. Hermione seems to be holding hers. Ron just looks confused.

“I’m dating Draco. I think. We haven’t really talked about what we are, but we’ve been seeing each other outside of our professional capacities –”

“Professional capacities,” Ron repeats, snorting.

“Congrats!” Hermione says, beaming, and Harry suddenly sees why everyone says Rose takes after Hermione.

“Congrats..?” Harry did not expect this. He expected a bunch of questions, a look of disappointment from Hermione, a lot of grumbling from Ron, and maybe a grimace or two. But he did not expect this.

“Let’s just say it’s not as big of a shock as you think it is,” Hermione says, uncrossing and re-crossing her legs. Ron scratches at a spot just below his chin.

Harry goggles at his best friends.

“Mate,” Ron starts, leaning forward. “We’ve always believed that you were half in love with Malfoy all these years.”

“Excuse me,” Hermione says, giving Ron a look. “It was _my_ theory. It took me two years to convince you that I was probably right.”

“A theory,” Harry says. Hermione nods.

“I theorized that part of the reason you hated Draco so much was because you harbored feelings for him that would have been considered unacceptable at the time. I also theorized that he returned those feelings, but that’s a different theory for another day. But yes, these feelings were unacceptable for various reasons.

“One; you were both seriously stubborn, and after already establishing the fact that you hated each other, neither one of you were willing to be the one to break that fact. Two; you were both on different sides of the war. The war simply took priority, and you had to look past these feelings in order to win. If you’d admitted your feelings to yourself, they would’ve been a liability. Three; you were both placed on a certain path to follow the moment you were born. He wasn’t able to stray away from supporting his family and the Dark Lord, and you were the Chosen One. You had no chances to deviate from that role, that responsibility. Being selfish was not an option.

“You never considered that liking Draco was a possibility, because you were so sure you shouldn’t, that you couldn’t. But the two of you have always been drawn to each other. Perhaps not in the best way, back then, but you were. Still are, I’d say.”

There’s only one thing that Harry can possibly do after hearing all this, and that is to stare at Hermione like she’s grown a second head.

“I know,” Ron says, agreeing with the look on Harry’s face. “It’s a lot to take in, ain’t it?”

Hermione rolls her eyes. Summoning a glass of water, she takes a delicate sip and peers at Harry.

“All that’s different now, Harry. You don’t have to worry that having feelings for him is going to endanger the wizarding world. You don’t have an image to uphold in front of hundreds of your fellow students in Hogwarts. The childhood feud is long buried. You can be happy now.”

“What she said,” Ron says, nodding. “Just… don’t snog in front of me, please. He’s still Malfoy, you know. There are some lines that just shouldn’t be crossed.”

Hermione smacks Ron upside the head and Harry suppresses a laugh.

“Yeah, okay. Yeah.”

Hermione gives him a small smile, the expression loaded with love for her best friend.

“Thank you,” Harry says. “For everything. For being you.”

“Of course,” she says, eyes a little shinier. “Now go. Have a good night’s sleep. Be happy.”

“I will,” he promises.

As he pulls himself out of the fireplace, he hears Hermione tell Ron that he owes her twenty Galleons. He chokes on a few flakes of ash as he laughs, and he wheezes on his carpet until his throat clears.

Hermione’s words replay themselves over and over in his mind as Harry gets ready for bed, and his eyes flutter shut to the soft tones of Hermione’s voice, telling him that _you can be happy now_.

 

 

 

  
Harry’s never felt like this before. Everything seems brighter, filled with life, and he loves it. His skin prickles with anticipation whenever Draco’s around, and he’s constantly hungry for a smile to grace Draco’s lips. That soft, regal voice has his heart crawling up into his throat, and that’s probably why Harry’s always at a loss for words whenever Draco is there.

They try their best to keep their rapidly budding relationship private, but the surge of potent magic that seems to occur whenever they’re within reach of each other makes it really hard to be discreet.

Once, they’d passed each other on a flight of stairs, as Harry headed to class and Draco to the owlery. They sneaked a kiss, just a barely-there brush of the lips as one ascended and one descended, and rose bushes had exploded into life around them. Bless Neville’s heart – he’d removed the plants from the steps and transported them into the gardens without demanding for an explanation.

Another time, Harry sent Draco a smile from across the Great Hall, and the enchanted ceiling above released a flood of pink fairies into the air. Draco had blushed furiously, and it had taken most of the staff members to send the fairies back to wherever they had come from. After that incident, they had no choice but to tell their fellow faculty members about their new dalliance.

And just a few minutes ago, as they sat pressed up against each other in the Astronomy Tower, three doves had flown in circles around them, several feathers drifting down to rest on their laps.

“Well,” Draco says, fiddling with a feather. “I could make a quill out of this.”

Gently, Harry plucks the feather out of Draco’s hands and replaces it with his questing fingers. Draco chuckles, lets Harry lace their fingers together, and gazes out at the expansive sky. The doves leave them alone, resting on a ledge on the other side of the Tower.

“The sky’s clear today,” he comments, and Harry hums contentedly next to him.

It’s almost March, and that means spring is coming. Harry likes spring; it breathes life back into slumbering animals and plants, brings colours back to the land, restores warmth to blood.

“I told Hermione and Ron about us,” Harry finally says. He’s been trying to find a good time to mention it, and he figures that this is as good as it’s gonna get.

“I know,” Draco replies, squeezing Harry’s hand.

“You do?”

“She sent me a letter recently. Told me that she’s forgiven me a long time ago, that she sees I’m no longer who I once was. That she believes we would be good for each other, you and I. To her, we’re identical and yet polar opposites, did you know? That we are the only ones that will ever truly understand each other. She wants us to allow ourselves a shot at redemption that we can only get through each other. She’s quite…”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. “She’s quite.”

Reaching over, Draco tilts Harry’s face up and lowers his own to press a kiss on Harry’s mouth.

“I think,” Draco whispers, each syllable causing his lips to move against Harry’s, “I think it’s always been you.”

Outside, from its perch in the sky, the moon glows brighter than it ever has.

 

 

 

  
Together, they discover the versatility of Hogwarts.

Harry brings Draco down to the kitchens, where they’ll spend nights whipping up various Korean dishes in order to satisfy Draco’s curiosity regarding that half of Harry’s heritage. He develops a love for kimchi (Harry’s not surprised; everyone loves kimchi), a severe dislike for soondae (which confuses Harry to no end, because Draco loves blood pudding, and isn’t that pretty much the same thing?), and a serious obsession for bingsu (again, unsurprising, because everyone loves bingsu).

They get permission from Fiora to explore the Muggle Studies classroom and storage room, where Harry shows Draco how Muggle contraptions work. After a handful of these dates, Draco starts begging Harry for bath bombs and a Magic Bullet.

Draco teaches Harry how to play the piano. The Room of Requirement kindly offers up its services, providing them with a grand piano placed in the middle of a spacious, but otherwise unfurnished, room.

Back in the room where McGonagall tried to teach their fourth year selves how to slow dance, Harry finally learns how. Draco doesn’t stop reminding him of how he’d stepped on Parvarti’s feet every other beat, and Harry grumbles his way to perfect rhythm and posture. When they finally manage to dance through an entire song without a single slip up, Draco doesn’t stop praising himself.

Draco tries to get Harry to use one of his hair potions, but the latter flat out refuses, claiming that his hair is _charming, thank you very much_ , and that it gives him _character_. Draco frowns, and Harry kisses it off his lips. Even when the frown is gone, Harry keeps kissing him until a smile appears, and until the smile is replaced with a stifled moan.

Stopping at that point becomes routine, and every date night ends that way, when someone moans brokenly into the other’s mouth. Whenever they part, foreheads pressing together and palms hot against the cut of hip bones beneath their robes, the unspoken question always hangs in the air, paper-thin, ready to be bruised and split open.

It stays intact for a while, trembling under the weight of their combined desire and fear.

It splits on the last day of March.

 

 

 

  
Someone’s knocking on his door, two sharp raps, and Harry calls for them to enter as he scowls down at the piles and piles of parchment strewn across his desk.

“Assigned a long essay, did you?” Draco says, patting him on the shoulder sympathetically.

“Might’ve asked for a bit too much,” Harry grumbles in resignation. He waves his wand, and the scrolls gather themselves into a somewhat neat mountain on the left side of his desk.

“Hi,” Harry says, looking up at Draco.

“Hi,” Draco replies, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I came to ask if you would be able to come over for Easter dinner. Mother requested for your presence. It’s okay if you have other plans, I’ll just –”

“I will be there,” Harry interjects. “Of course I’ll go.”

“I know you want to stay back just in case students have questions, so it’ll just be dinner.”

“Sounds good, babe.”

Draco nods. As he raises his hands to gather his hair back into its bun, his robe falls open just a few inches, and that’s when Harry sees it. It’s slightly curved, the tip just spilling over the edge of Draco’s clavicle. The skin’s pale, even paler than the rest of the man, and oddly smooth.

“Draco.”

“Hmm?”

“What is that?” Harry points, tries to keep his finger steady. He already knows what it is, but he’s hoping for another answer. Any other answer apart from the one screaming at him in his head.

Puzzled, Draco follows the line of Harry’s finger. When his expression shutters off, Harry tries to breathe through the vice around his throat.

“Let me see.”

“Harry. I don’t think –”

“Please. Let me. I need to see.” His throat is suddenly quite parched.

Draco sighs and unclasps his robes. He drapes them across the back of a chair and proceeds to unbutton his dress shirt – a deep, royal blue, and it brings out his eyes. Any other day and Harry would probably be waxing poetry over that fact, but today is not the day.

The last button slips through its hole, and the shirt hangs open.

The one that Harry spotted is the largest one. It runs from the clavicle, diagonally across Draco’s chest, and ends just past the pectoral muscle on the other side. Another one runs parallel to that, an inch lower, and a few inches shorter. Harry steps around his desk, runs the pad of his thumb along that large scar, and sags against the edge of the table.

Draco’s torso has it worse. Harry counts seven lines there, seven straight lines turned uneven by the outlines of muscles. One cuts from his navel to the dip of his right oblique, while another bisects through the ridges of Draco’s abs almost evenly. A couple continue past the waistband of Draco’s tailored slacks, and the remaining ones, just a few inches long, fill in the empty spaces. Not a single scar puckers.

“I thought,” Harry begins, but the words can’t seem to come out, and he grits his teeth in frustration.

“They used most of the dittany on my face and neck,” Draco says quietly, fingers still curled into loose fists. He looks straight ahead, at a spot on Harry’s wall, the furrow between his eyebrows faint but ever present.

“I’m –”

“Don’t apologise,” Draco interrupts. “Everyone has scars. These are part of what I must carry with me through life. They are part of what makes me, me. Besides, I’m pretty sure I left some scars of my own on your soul at some point. We’re even, trust me.”

Harry splays his fingers out across Draco’s stomach, index finger trailing after one of the scars as far as it can go. He notes the slight contrast between Draco’s scars and his unmarred skin, the downy gold of his happy trail, the way Draco’s muscles are slightly tensed against the pressure of Harry’s hand.

“Do you mind if I –”

Draco shakes his head instantly.

So Harry leans in, runs the flat of his tongue up the scar across Draco’s chest, pressing a kiss to the apex. From there, he plants gentle kisses up the slope of Draco’s shoulder to the curve of his neck, where he buries his nose into the spot just behind Draco’s jaw. He inhales, tightens his hold on the willing man in his grasp, and sighs.

His breath washes over the back of Draco’s bare neck, and Draco shudders.

“Kiss me,” Draco demands hoarsely, and Harry locks the door with a flick of his hand before obliging. Draco kisses back desperately, forgivingly, _lovingly_ , and Harry is dizzy with it. He pushes the shirt off Draco’s shoulders and lets Draco nibble on his bottom lip, lets Draco do whatever the fuck he wants to his mouth because it’s _Draco_.

Draco pushes Harry’s hands down, slots his hips into them, and whispers a “Take them off for me, please?”

And Harry does. Draco’s belt is gone in a heartbeat, tossed across the room, and his slacks are bunched around his knees in another. He’s still got his pants on, though; Harry doesn’t want to assume anything.

“Everything, Harry.”

Okay.

Harry isn’t given the chance to touch, however, before Draco’s manhandling him out of his own clothes. He finds himself up on his feet, bare back pressed up against the cold stone walls, deft fingers working at the button of his jeans.

“Are we – Is this,” Harry pants. He nearly trips over his own feet as he kicks off the remaining articles of clothing.

“I’m not ready for that yet,” Draco says, tugging on Harry’s earlobe with his teeth. “Not that. But yeah, this is.”

“Merlin,” Harry groans, heart colliding with his sternum when Draco palms his ass and grinds very deliberately against his thigh. “Okay.”

“You can touch me,” Draco mumbles, lips pressed against the corner of Harry’s mouth. “Please touch me.”

So Harry lets his hands drift everywhere, from the nape of Draco’s neck to the slim waist. He thumbs at a pink nipple, whimpers when Draco arches responsively into him, and dips further south, fingertips brushing the swell of Draco’s ass and the tops of his thighs.

“How are you so fit,” Harry groans.

“I go to a Muggle gym,” Draco informs him. “I think I figured all the contraptions out there pretty well, don’t you think?”

“Shit,” Harry mutters. “Yeah, yeah, you did. You did a great job there, Draco.”

Draco laughs, slides his slick cock into the seam of Harry’s thigh, and Harry’s brain almost short circuits. When he finally manages to gather his wits, Harry glances down and nearly comes right there and then. Draco’s cock is as pretty the rest of him; long, slender, nestled in a neat patch of golden hair. Draco probably trims, Harry thinks, dazed.

“You can look _and_ touch, you know.”

It’s warm and solid in Harry’s hand, and even the gentlest tug has Draco moaning obscenely right into Harry’s ear.

“The number of times I’ve wanked to just the idea of your hand on me,” Draco tells him, syllables hot against his cheek. Something guttural rips out of Harry’s throat, and he flips them around, takes a step back so he finally has the space to properly fist Draco’s cock.

Fingers scrabble at the stones, and Harry briefly wonders if Draco will damage one of those perfectly manicured nails. He twists his wrist, dips his thumb underneath the foreskin and rubs at the underside of the glans. Draco scratches angry lines down his back, but the mild pain just spurs Harry on.

“Look at you,” Harry mutters, eyes never leaving the weeping cock in his hand. “You’re _dripping_ for me.”

“Fuck,” Draco gasps, eyelids flying open as he fucks up into Harry’s fist, hips stuttering as he comes messily between them.

He slumps bonelessly into Harry, and Harry can feel Draco’s body shake with each thump of his heart. Harry grinds his own straining erection into Draco’s hip, and Draco helps by murmuring filthy nonsense into Harry’s ear.

“Just like that,” he says, voice velvety soft. “Salazar, I can feel how slippery you are. More, Harry.”

When Draco reaches around to squeeze Harry’s ass, Harry comes with an embarrassingly loud moan.

They stay where they are, chests heaving as they attempt to regain some form of composure. Harry’s spent cock is still resting on Draco’s thigh, and they’ve got come on their toes.

“Sorry about the scars,” Harry finally says, and Draco nearly cracks a rib laughing.

 

 

 

  
Easter dinner with Draco and his family is a simple affair. Harry buys a handful of chocolate Easter eggs for Scorpius (one may or may not be a gag from Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, but one will just have to wait to find out), and brings a huge bouquet of narcissuses for Narcissa. She chuckles in delight, sticks them in a crystal vase, and places them on the mantle right by the front door.

After dinner, Harry finds himself getting tugged into the drawing room by an overzealous Scorpius. Narcissa takes the chance to tap her son on the shoulder and gestures with her head towards the adjoining room, where they have a clear line of sight of the drawing room. She settles onto a loveseat and Draco joins her, smiling slightly when she tucks a few strands of hair behind his ear and caresses his cheek.

“You seem happier,” she comments, a hand resting on his knee. “Lighter.”

“I am. It’s been easier, lately.”

“Easier?”

“To breathe. To wake up. To recognise that I’ve indeed come very far. It’s… really quite nice, Mother.”

“He’s a good man,” Narcissa says, gazing into the other room.

“Yes, but it’s not just him. It’s everyone. Our family name will always be tarnished, Mother, and we both know that, but so many people have looked past the name and saw me for me. People look up to him, they respect his opinions and his choices. And his acceptance of me, his acknowledgement of my changes – it’s opened everyone else up to it too.

“Students greet me in the halls now, Mother. They don’t hate coming to class anymore. Well, most of them don’t. My colleagues include me in conversations, they invite me to events, they treat me like an equal.”

Something clatters to the ground in the other room, and Harry shouts out a _sorry!_ that Scorpius echoes.

“Honey,” Narcissa says, picking up one of Draco’s hands and sandwiching it between her own, “you deserve this.”

He looks over at her quizzically, and she gestures towards the drawing room in lieu of an answer.

“Yeah,” he says after a beat, leaning over to give his mother a kiss on the cheek, “You know, I think I do.”

 

 

 

  
It’s a relationship that neither of them have ever really expected to have in their lives. They squabble and bicker like any other couple, and they’ve had a couple of bigger fights that had left Harry with bloodied knuckles, courtesy of rough stone walls, and Draco’s room absolutely trashed. But those days are clear outliers.

Most days start off with Draco settling down in his seat for breakfast and seeing a full plate already set out for him, toast slathered with marmalade instead of butter, sliced neatly into triangles. A bowl of fruit to the right, scrambled egg whites, just one strip of bacon, and two tablespoons of beans. Harry, a few seats away, will give him a wink and a smile, and Draco will finish every single morsel, feeling quite loved.

Most days, they trade light kisses when they pass each other in the hallways, and Draco will slip into one of Harry’s DADA classes during the spare period he has after lunch just to watch him teach. Ever so often, Harry will sometimes ask Draco to assist him in demonstrations for his sixth and seventh year classes (much to the surprise of the students in the beginning), and they’ll face each other in duel stances, a spitting image of when they’d faced off with each other in their second year. Now, however, they’ve got playful smiles instead of scowls on their faces, and they duel with a sense of comfortable familiarity.

They still venture out into Hogsmeade for dates, and when they take a weekend off to Floo home, they’ll meet for dinner. The Astronomy Tower becomes their little getaway place, where Harry will, more often than not, doze off on Draco’s lap, lulled into a deep sense of ease with the feeling of gentle fingers in his hair.

Their touches grow in intensity, emboldened by the passage of time and the primal want in their blood. They find themselves in dark corners, lips spit-slick and fingers hot underneath their robes, Harry’s glasses askew and Draco’s hair still perfectly secured in that stupid bun that Harry’s knees are putty for.

Harry goes down on his knees the first time in the quiet hallway just outside Draco’s quarters, the fabric of those expensive robes soft in his hands as he swallows Draco down, tasting the tang of his pre-come and the sweetness of his stifled moans. Draco returns the favour not too long after, folded beneath Harry’s desk as Harry tries (and fails) to grade papers with a talented tongue lapping at the underside of his cock. He pulls Draco’s hair free from their constraints in retaliation, but it backfires spectacularly when he glances down and sees Draco’s piercing eyes staring right back at him through messy strands of liquid silver all over his face. He comes down Draco’s throat, cursing himself as he tries to breathe through his aftershocks.

Their colleagues eventually take to referring to them as a pair, one name always with the other’s. Neville even names two of the rose bushes after them.

When Gryffindor wins the Quidditch Cup, Draco summons a broom and flies up to Harry, the handles of their broomsticks knocking together as they kiss, the whoops and cheers of the crowd beneath them bringing shy grins to their faces.

Yeah, it’s a relationship they never thought they’d ever have, and they’re damned if they ever let it go.

 

 

 

  
The rush of exams washes over the castle like a tsunami. The cresting wave brings with it a lack of sleep and stress-induced hair pulling, and the crash of its swell sweeps the school with a large sigh of relief and seeping exhaustion.

Somehow, in the middle of all the chaos, Harry manages to surprise Draco with a small birthday cake (made in the kitchens with the help of Winky) and a present that he’d asked Hermione to procure.

“Happy birthday, love,” he says, delighted at the flush sweeping over Draco’s cheeks.

“You remembered,” Draco mumbles delightedly, playing with the ribbon wrapped around the little box in his hands.

“How could I forget? Your birthday parties back when we were in school were so obnoxious,” Harry teases, and Draco wrinkles his nose.

“They really were,” he admits.

“Make a wish,” Harry says, lighting the single candle with a snap of his fingers.

“What?”

“Well, Muggles have this birthday tradition where you make a wish and then blow out the candles.”

“Right,” Draco says. “That sounds somewhat familiar.”

Harry gestures to the candle, and Draco closes his eyes. A few seconds later, the candle’s out with a wisp of smoke.

They eat the cake, their sides pressed against each other as they look out at the sky. Then Draco opens the present, and his breath hitches at sight of the intricate hair clasp in his palm.

“It’s custom-made,” Harry says. “Made with magically reinforced platinum and engraved with dragons and the Malfoy crest. Your regular clasps always seem to break apart, and you go through so many of them, so I thought I’d get you a special one that’ll always stay intact.”

“I love it,” Draco says, slipping the old, boring one off his hair and replacing it with his gift.

“It won’t break no matter what you do to it,” Harry says. “Which means I can tug on your hair however much I want to now, and you can't stop me.”

Draco snorts and proceeds to snog Harry silly.

When the castle finally empties for the summer holidays a week later, Harry turns to Draco and says, “Dinner? Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” Drao agrees easily, and they part ways with a kiss.

 

 

 

  
They spend as much time as they can with each other.

Harry takes Draco to visit Godric’s Hollow, where Draco spends an inordinately long time kneeling in front of James and Lily Potter’s graves, fingers pressed over the epitaph on their tombstones. The scene seems too intimate, so Harry stays a respectable distance away, strolling amongst the Christmas trees he’d planted over the past few years. They’re still standing, still thriving, and it’s a nice weight in Harry’s chest.

They visit Lucius Malfoy in Azkaban. Harry watches with amusement, Draco with nervousness, as the vein in Lucius’ temple throbs when he finds out that his son is dating the Boy Who Lived. His jaw clenches and unclenches, and Harry is _this close_ to asking if Lucius is okay when the man sighs and slumps against the filthy wall of his cell.

“Alright,” he mutters to himself.

Then, straightening, Lucius pushes his matted hair out of his face and extends a hand through the bars.

“Thank you for taking care of my family while I’m… otherwise incapacitated.”

Harry shakes his hand, just two firm pumps, and says, “It’s my pleasure.”

In the midst of summer, when it’s damp and sticky, Hermione organises a get-together for the students in their year in the fields surrounding the Burrow. Most of their Gryffindor friends show up, and Harry gets into a somewhat awkward hug with Cho. She tells him that she’s married now, and has a son that she’s named Cedric. Harry has to smile at that.

Draco’s a little surprised by the appearance of Gregory Goyle, and they disappear for a private conversation that takes up most of an hour. When they return, Harry spots a few telltale patches of colour riding high on Draco’s cheekbones, but he just offers his boyfriend a little squeeze of the hand and doesn’t push. Pansy Parkinson shows up with Blaise Zabini in tow, and they seem poised to flee the moment they step into the room. Until Luna comes up to them, all friendly smile and ethereal aura, two bottles of Butterbeer in her small hands.

Hermione and Draco get into a deep discussion over Ministry politics, and their respective significant others leave them to it, not wishing to get pulled into the debate against their wills.

So they join Dean and Seamus outside, where they catch up with each other’s lives. They’re more than a little surprised when they find out about Harry and Draco, but they accept it with little argument. In turn, Harry learns that Seamus’s seeing an Irish girl, and that Dean’s just broken up with a guy he’s been with for two years.

“I always thought the two of you would end up together,” Ron says absently.

Dean and Seamus exchange a look.

“Well, we were together for a while,” Dean finally says. “But it fizzled out to more of a best friend kind of thing.”

“Yeah,” Seamus agrees, “we think it’s better this way. I plan on proposing soon, actually, and he’s already demanding to be my best man.”

“Who the heck else would be your best man?” Dean demands, and Seamus shrugs, as if saying _I guess he’s got a point._

 

 

 

  
Harry also starts spending a lot of time with Scorpius.

Since Scorpius had showered Sirius with all those dog treats during Christmas, Sirius had taken immediately to the boy. They go on walks whenever Scorpius wants, strolling through Muggle London or around the large dog park in Wizarding London, where Sirius always fails to catch a ball made to act like a Snitch.

Harry takes the entire Malfoy family out for movies, for meals, and even invites them to one of the Weasley’s Sunday Dinners. It goes as smoothly as he could’ve hoped for, and the light on Draco’s face sends a jolt of happiness right into Harry’s heart.

Teddy and Scorpius become great friends, and the adults find themselves pulled into 2-on-2 Quidditch games whenever Harry brings Teddy over to visit Scorpius or vice versa. Teddy’s excited to have another friend when the next school year begins, and Harry can tell Draco is immensely relieved that Scorpius won’t be all alone.

Scorpius also starts to befriend the rest of the latest Weasley generation – Victoire is due to start at Hogwarts the same year as he is, and Fleur’s been encouraging her to spend time with other kids her age. So Harry attends a fair number of playdates, most of them at the Burrow, whenever the parents are free to bring their kids around.

He hosts a sleepover, with Draco’s help. Six kids – Hugo deemed too young to partake in excessive consumption of sugar when it’s dark out – stuffed into his modest home is a little crazy, to say the least, but Harry’s always loved kids. So he puts up with the demands, lets Roxanne weave ribbons into his hair, lets Rose scribble all over his skin with washable markers. Draco, bless his heart, does so too. He lets Teddy dress him in Harry’s clothes. When Harry looks up to see Draco waddling out of Harry’s bedroom with too-loose basketball shorts threatening to slip from his hips and something obnoxiously pink strapped to his chest, he nearly dies laughing.

“That’s Ginny’s,” he wheezes, pointing to the pink corset that he had completely forgotten about – it’s been _years_ since he’s seen that thing. Teddy’s put it on all wrong, of course, but that just makes it even funnier.

“I would hope so,” Draco says mildly. “You’d look real barmy in this, regardless of how handsome you are in general.”

“Aw,” Harry says, grinning. He places a palm over his heart. “That’s so sweet.”

Rolling his eyes, Draco lets Victoire tug him down onto the rug, where she promptly starts braiding that lovely hair.

The kids finally fall asleep around midnight, all curled up together on the floor in the drawing room, little bodies cushioned by the mounds of thick blankets Harry had transfigured from towels. Sirius lies down by Fred’s feet, and snuffles a few times before closing his eyes.

“They’re a family,” Draco breathes, leaning against the door frame and watching them.

“We are,” Harry says, and Draco’s lips curl into a tremulous smile.

Harry pulls him upstairs into his bedroom and shuts the door with a gentle click.

“I expected more of a mess,” Draco admits, looking around curiously. There are pictures hung up all over the wall to the right, and he recognises most of Harry’s friends and family in them. When he sees a picture of them, taken at one of the Weasleys’ Sunday Dinners, all curled up in an armchair, he feels wet heat prickling up behind his eyes.

“I’m there?”

“Of course you are, you twit. Why wouldn’t you be?” Harry says, carefully plucking out all the ribbons in his hair.

“Dunno,” Draco mumbles, rubbing absently at his bare arm. He’d long since ditched the corset, but didn’t bother replacing it with a shirt. The kids had fun drawing all over his back, anyway.

“Come here,” Harry says, tossing the last ribbon onto the bedside table and stripping down to his underwear.

Draco tears his eyes away from the photograph and slides under the covers, shucking off those blasted basketball shorts along the way.

They press up against each other, nuzzling and trading chaste kisses. Harry’s hand is nice and warm against the small of his back, and Draco breathes him in.

“Harry?”

“Hmm?”

“I think I’m ready.”

“Ready?”

Draco bites on his lower lip, unsure of how to proceed. But he gets his point across easily enough when he slides a leg between Harry’s, the roughness of the wiry hairs on Harry’s calves sending a nice buzz up his spine.

“Oh,” Harry exhales, eyes suddenly wide open. “You are?”

“Yeah,” Draco says, throat dry and heart thundering. “But I’ve never done it before.”

“We’ll take it easy, yeah? And I’ll be there every step of the way,” Harry promises. “You control the pace, okay?”

Draco can only find it in himself to nod before he shifts up onto his elbows and all but slams their mouths together. Harry can sense his fear, but there’s an underlying current of blatant desire that’s been bottled up and locked away for months that he knows mirrors his own. So he kisses back, grabs Draco around the neck and tilts their faces for deeper access. He licks inside, bites on the swell of a lip, pulls it into his mouth.

When they finally part for air, Draco casts a silencing charm around them and shifts so that he’s straddling Harry’s hips.

“I’ve been thinking of this for months now,” Draco says, toes curling into the sheets when Harry moves under him, placing pressure just underneath his balls.

“Oh trust me, so have I,” Harry replies, dragging his palms up the beautifully scarred chest in front of him.

“Did you want to, ah, be the one who –”

“No, I think you should,” Harry says, “it’s a less… stressful role, good to get you in the groove of things. You’ve slept with women before, so it’ll be similar territory for you. We can switch it up in the future, of course, but I think it’s a good idea if you fuck me this time around. I’m definitely not complaining.”

“Wow, okay, yeah, you’re very... to the point,” Draco mutters, twisting the braid free. His hair tumbles down over his shoulders, a little wavy from the braid, and Harry wraps a lock around his finger.

“Like I said, I’ve been thinking about this for a long time.”

“So how do we –”

“Draco,” Harry says reproachfully. “Have you never heard of foreplay?”

 

 

 

  
Draco’s the one lying back now, a knee bent by Harry’s ear as the latter noses his way around the base of Draco’s cock. He nips and laves, but doesn’t get his mouth where Draco needs it to be, and Draco’s got a few colourful words ready to burst forth by the time Harry spreads his thighs further apart and grins up at him.

“Potter, I swear to –”

Of course Harry sucks Draco down the second he starts talking. Harry smirks around the cock in his mouth when Draco’s sentence cuts off with a shout, and Draco digs his nails into Harry’s scalp in retaliation and bucks his hips, forcing Harry to let Draco’s cock push farther down his throat.

“That’s rude,” Harry croaks, pulling off Draco’s cock with a cough. Draco raises an eyebrow.

“I know you like it,” he says, and Harry has to admit that the man’s got a point.

He wriggles his way back up Draco’s frame, catches a nipple between his teeth, and gives it enough attention for it to pucker up instantly in his mouth. Draco whines, deep and long, and tries to grind up against Harry’s belly. He doesn’t quite get what he’s aiming for – he gets something better. The tip of his cock brushes against the side of Harry’s, and they both swallow choked moans before Draco forces a hand between them and wraps it around their cocks. The slick helps with the slide, and Harry rolls his hips slowly as Draco moves his hand.

“You know,” Draco starts, “foreplay is great and all, but I’m gonna come in about ten seconds if this foreplay session continues.”

“You could just say that you really wanna be inside me,” Harry says, sliding out of Draco’s fist and summoning a phial of oil from a drawer.

“That’s crass,” Draco says primly, and Harry rolls his eyes.

He casts a quick cleaning charm over them (effectively removing all of the artwork adorned all over their skin) before he uncorks the phial, pours a liberal amount onto his palm, and locks eyes with Draco.

“I want you to watch me,” he says, and his voice sounds too rough to his ears. Draco swallows. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

And Draco watches, icy hot eyes boring into Harry’s, somehow managing to convey the fact that Harry is all Draco wants. Harry’s heart is beating out a steady staccato, and the first push of a finger inside him already brings Draco’s name to his lips.

“I wish you could see what I’m looking at right now,” Draco forces out thickly.

Harry inserts another finger, and Draco’s eyes fly down to where they disappear into him. Harry tracks the bob of Draco’s Adam’s apple as he swallows, the steady heaving of his chest.

“Harry,” Draco says brokenly.

“Draco,” Harry returns. “Touch me.”

Warm fingers circle around his straining cock, and Harry sighs in pleasure when Draco sets a nice pace, foreskin slipping nicely around the glans, just barely brushing the dripping slit. Harry’s three fingers deep now, and Draco pushes himself up onto his elbows to nip at the hollow of Harry’s throat.

“I really gotta,” he says, licking his lips. “I need to –”

“Yeah? What do you need, Draco?” Harry shifts and extracts his fingers. He tips the remaining oil out onto Draco’s cock and slicks him up slowly, a protection charm leaving his lips as he does so. Draco releases Harry’s cock and both hands come up to grab onto his thighs instead. The phial rolls off the bed and drops to the floor with a soft clink.

“Fuck,” is all Draco says.

“Tell me. What do you need? I want to hear it.”

“It’s –”

“Crass, I know,” Harry breathes, gripping Draco’s cock and lining himself up. He stays hovering, however, unwilling to give in. “Your father would have a heart attack if he hears you say it. So say it.”

“Be inside you,” Draco grits.

“Not what I want to hear,” Harry says, “and not what you want to say, either.”

Harry feels the cock in his hand throb.

“I need to fuck you,” Draco groans. “Okay? I need to fuck you hard enough that you feel me inside you through to the next bloody week.”

“There you go,” Harry croaks, and pushes himself down over the head of Draco’s cock.

Draco starts to swear, but he manages to hold the most of it back and thrust up to meet Harry’s grind down. The room fills with the sound of shallow panting and the slippery stickiness of bodily fluids and oil.

“I can’t,” Draco says, then all but lifts Harry off of him.

“What?”

“Knees,” Draco orders. “Hands and knees.”

Oh.

Harry’s foot gets tangled up in the sheets and he nearly topples off the bed, but there are strong hands gripping him by the hips. Draco’s sliding back to home base by the time Harry finds purchase in the pillows, and everything boils down to Harry’s ass bouncing off of Draco’s hips from there.

“You drive me a little nuts, you know that?” Draco grunts, fingers digging bruises into the flesh around Harry’s navel.

“Right back at you,” Harry pants, sweat forming on his back, neck, everywhere.

“Look at us,” Draco says, a short moan slipping from his mouth as he rolls his hips. “A sinner and a saint.”

“I’m no saint, Draco.” Harry twists to look over his shoulder, pushing back against Draco’s cock. “Definitely no saint.”

“Two sinners then,” Draco amends, and Harry’s eyes flutter shut.

He’s trying to hold on for as long as he can, so that he can keep feeling the delicious slide of Draco inside him and against his walls, the way the head of that blessed cock nudges his prostate so nicely. He wants this to last forever, to be quite honest, and when Draco groans out a, “Me too,” Harry realises he’s said that out loud.

A hand pushes down on the space between his scapulas, and Harry finds himself struggling to breathe against the pillows, the force of Draco’s hips forcing all the air out of his lungs with every single thrust.

His orgasm builds abruptly, rattling to the peak and sending him catapulting over it with a hoarse yell, cock twitching into the sheets, untouched. Draco follows soon after, balls pulled up tight, cock pulsing to a steady beat inside Harry.

Harry’s left feeling a little loose and empty when Draco finally pulls out and slumps down next to him.

“So?” Harry asks, breathless.

“We can go again in fifteen,” Draco answers, and Harry can’t help but laugh.

 

 

 

  
The whole of July 31st is a loud and boisterous affair.

There’s a huge cake, lots of presents, and for some reason, lots of confetti. Muggle confetti is one thing, but magical confetti just doesn’t stop moving. Harry’s pretty sure he’s swallowed over a dozen pieces of paper since arriving at the Burrow for his ‘surprise’ party.

But eating paper is more than worth it, if it means having everyone he loves gathered around him; even the remaining members of the Order showed up. Narcissa’s laughing so hard at something that Kingsley had said that her wine glass is threatening to tip over.

“The last year of your 20s,” Hermione says, leaning against the kitchen counter.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Time passes by so fast, doesn’t it? It’s a little frightening, but it’s also quite exciting. I’ve so much more to look forward to, you know?”

Hermione glances over to where Draco’s giving Rose a ride around on his shoulders, the little girl laughing as they chase after Mini-Hedwig. Harry smiles at the sight, at how breathtaking the man looks dressed in fitted jeans and a simple black tee. His hair’s held back with the hair clasp Harry had given him, but Rose has tugged more than a few strands loose, and Harry thinks it’s perfect this way.

“You really do,” Hermione agrees, and Harry reaches out to pull her into a hug.

 

 

 

  
“Merlin, Draco. What _is_ this?”

“It’s a present, Harry,” Draco deadpans. “That means you open it to find out what it is instead of asking what it is.”

Ron snorts and reaches back to give Draco a fist bump.

Harry chooses to start at the left corner, poking a hole through the wrapping paper with the edge of a nail. The paper gives easily and he tears a long strip across. The rest falls away pretty easily after that.

“Oh my,” Luna says.

It’s a gigantic painting of everyone important to Harry’s life. Literally everyone. His parents are front and center; James has an arm around Harry’s shoulder, and Lily’s got her head resting on James’. Hermione’s on the other side of Harry, their arms linked, with Ron holding her free hand. Behind Harry stands Draco to the left, and Sirius to the right. Remus, Tonks, Severus, Dumbledore, McGonagall… They’re all there. The entire Weasley clan takes up the left side of the painting, and Hagrid’s relegated to the back because of his sheer size. Narcissa’s there, too, small but there. Neville, Luna, a few other key members of the DA. The members of the Order, those still around and those no longer. The kids – Scorpius is there, too – are running about in the front, and as Harry watches, Hugo trips over his sister’s foot and Hermione looks down at them disapprovingly. Sirius the dog wags his tail happily.

“Thought it would look nice on your wall,” Draco says, a little uncomfortable with how everyone’s looking right at him. “Everyone you love and who loves you. I really hope I didn’t miss anyone. And… I got a little selfish, as you can see. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind?” Harry bursts, sounding a little faint. “Do I mind? Of _course_ I don’t mind, are you _insane_?”

He turns back to the painting; it’s almost as tall as he is, and he reckons it would probably stretch across most of the the wall. He’ll have to move most of his photographs, but that’s barely a sacrifice. The frame’s beautifully ornate, painted a rustic red – an homage to his love for Gryffindor, if Harry had to guess.

“Draco, I love this. It’s… everything.”

“I’m glad,” Draco says. “I was hoping you’d say that; you’ve already given me everything I could ever want or need, so I figured I needed to return the favour.”

“You actually are an idiot,” Harry says, still not turning around. He doesn’t want to see the faces of everyone else looking at him, doesn’t want to see the soft, affectionate expression that he _knows_ is on Draco’s face. He doesn’t want them to see the tears welling up in his eyes.

“Er,” Draco says.

Harry peers down at his parents; James gives him his signature wink, warm brown eyes ever comforting.

“You’re an idiot,” Harry repeats. “Even before this, I already had everything I wanted. I had you, didn’t I?”

“I’m just gonna,” Ron says, getting to his feet and making as much noise as possible. Harry hears a dull smack, and he guesses that Molly or Hermione must’ve smacked Ron on his head. He hears Ron’s grumble, and the chair he had just vacated creaks again as he settles back into it.

“Oh,” Draco utters.

“Yeah, ‘oh’,” Harry mumbles.

In the painting, Lily reaches past James to brush the back of her fingers against Harry’s cheek.

He finally turns around then, and his eyes pick out Draco from the crowd instantly.

“You know I love you, right?”

He sees Ron cringe out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t care. Draco pinks, and Scorpius looks up at his father from his spot on Draco’s lap.

“Yeah,” Draco finally answers. “I love you, too.”

“I do too!” Scorpius exclaims, waving an arm excitedly.

Harry laughs. “Thanks, bud. I love you too.” He looks at everyone else, and they’re all smiling back at him. Hermione’s eyes are starting to well up.

“I love you all,” he says. “For being a part of my crazy life.”

“We wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, mate,” Ron says gruffly, and Hermione bursts out sobbing into Rose’s hair.

 

 

 

  
**Epilogue:**

Teddy’s graduating (as Head Boy, no less), and Harry’s never felt so proud in his life. He’d come close though, when Scorpius had achieved nothing less than an Exceeds Expectations in all of his O.W.L.s. But Teddy’s _graduating_ , with all the N.E.W.T.s. he needs to become a researcher in incurable magical maladies (with a focus on lycanthropy).

“You know that whatever you’re doing is useless,” Draco drawls, walking into Harry’s office where the latter’s trying to tame his hair, now long enough to brush his shoulders. “Use my damn potions, like I’ve been asking you to do so for the past however many years.”

Harry sighs. “Fine. But only because it’s Teddy’s graduation.”

Draco rolls his eyes and pulls out a couple of phials from his pocket. Sunlight streams into the room, and the platinum ring on Draco’s ring finger catches the light.

Harry stands perfectly still as Draco fiddles with his hair, eyes trained on his husband of three years as he sweeps the longer strands back into place. Draco himself had cut a few inches off his hair not long ago, and Harry had been quite sad until he found out that there was enough length left to grab onto during sex (and for that irresistible bun). After that revelation, all was well.

“All done,” Draco says, slipping the phials back into his pocket. “See?”

Harry checks himself out in the mirror – huh, those potions really are something.

Draco rolls his eyes again and pulls on Harry’s hand.

“Come on, the ceremony is starting.”

In the Great Hall, the graduates are all lined up in the middle aisle, two neat rows of proud students. Harry catches Teddy’s eye easily from his seat up on the Teacher’s Table, and he winks when Teddy gives both him and Draco a subtle wave.

McGonagall is finishing her speech, and Harry should’ve really paid more attention, because this time next year, that speech is all his responsibility. She’s finally decided to retire, and Harry had been more than honoured to succeed her as Headmaster.

At the Ravenclaw table, Scorpius is busy whispering to a friend, and Victoire is fiddling with a feather she’d found on Scorpius’ shoulder. Both of them have _Congrats Teddy!_ buttons pinned to the front of their robes. George’s kids, both in Gryffindor of course, are also sporting _Congrats Teddy!_ buttons, and judging from how those buttons look, Harry just knows that Draco’s the one behind them.

Fireworks explode up in the enchanted ceiling, and Harry joins his fellow teachers in rising and clapping for the newly minted graduates. McGonagall leads the way, and the graduates follow her out to the Black Lake (Teddy gives Scorpius a playful pinch on the arm when he passes), where the enchanted boats are waiting for their last ride across.

Before boarding, Teddy manages to slip out of his spot in line, and he rushes over to give Harry a hug. Harry squeezes back, tells his godson that he’s _so proud of you; your parents are so proud of you._

“I couldn’t have done it without you, Harry. Thank you for everything you’ve done for me, for making sure I had a father figure in my life, for never letting me forget my parents. For a family.”

Harry doesn’t quite trust himself to reply to that, but Teddy understands. So he gives Harry another grateful smile, turns to Draco, and gives him a hug too.

“And thank you, Draco, for being there for Harry.”

“Of course,” Draco says, giving Teddy a fond clap to the shoulder. “Go on now, they’re waiting for you.”

“We’ll see you in a few days,” Harry calls after him, and Teddy waves over his shoulder in acknowledgement as he climbs aboard a boat.

The fireworks continue as the boats sail out towards Hogsmeade, now out in the open sky, and when Draco reaches down for Harry’s hand, Harry can only thank his lucky stars for his life turning out the way it has.

He waves until the boats disappear from view.

Draco leans in, presses a kiss to the curve of Harry’s neck, and says, “Hey. I’ve been thinking; do you want a kid of our own?”

“I want everything with you,” Harry says. He feels Draco smile against his skin, feels the warmth of the sun on their joined hands.

 _You can be happy now_ , he suddenly remembers Hermione telling him all those years ago. He closes his eyes and makes a note to himself to tell her that _yes, I am happy now._

**Author's Note:**

> So! A few things:
> 
> 1) I've been a HP fan since I was a wee tot, and now, ~15 years later, I've finally gotten around to writing fic for them. Better late than never, right?  
> 2) I made Harry half-Korean because... well, why not? But just in case, i made sure that this fact is not a major part of the fic, so if you didn't like it, it's quite easy to look past it.  
> 3) Draco with long hair (and in a bun) is literally my biggest wish (and kink). If you've seen upthehill's art, I imagine Draco to be exactly how she draws him, just with long hair! If you haven't seen her art... please do omg.  
> 4) I wanted a squib to be part of the Wizarding world, in a bigger capacity that what Filch had. So yes, a squib teaching Muggle Studies!  
> 5) There's a lot of dialogue, I realize. But a lot of my HC in regards to this ship centres their potential dialogue. To me, they'd have to talk things out in order to learn and understand one another. It's a marathon, not a sprint!  
> 6) Speaking of headcanons: Draco as a character is very important to me, in terms of his potential. Him in this fic is how I've always wanted him to be, so... I guess this fic is very self-indulgent hehe.  
> 7) I finished this at 3 A.M. and proofread it after – I apologise for any mistakes I might have missed!  
> 8) I've tried to fact-check all the possible details, but the HP universe is too huge, and if I've made any mistakes regarding the magical world, please don't hex me.  
> 9) Also, Pellicci's is an actual restaurant.
> 
>  
> 
> [Click for Links!](https://bluedveins.wixsite.com/evoxine)


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